


all lost souls

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood and Gore, Breaking Up & Making Up, Cannibalism, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicide, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6515068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not again, Akaashi thought. But he had never seen this sight before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the dying god

Akaashi sees Bokuto across the room, over the heads of fifty people. The hair is the same, gray and upright. He still has the strong slope of his forehead, the same sharp eyebrows, and that easy pleasant grin. His suit jacket has been slung over the chair, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s talking with his hands, chopsticks snapping open and shut, and his entire body is animated. 

The heat of the room swells against Akaashi’s throat. He considers stepping back outside into the cool night, weaving through the neon-lit signboards and oil-slick streets. But Bokuto has already caught sight of him, like the fifty customers chatting around their tables had all disappeared. Bokuto’s eyes are round and golden.

“Akaashi! Over here! Hey, can he hear us? Akaashi!” Bokuto waves his hand, rising from his chair. His jacket slumps closer to the floor. 

Akaashi makes his way to their table in measured steps. He tucks a finger under his collar, trying to separate the dry cloth from his sweaty neck. He does not look up. The shoes of other customers. The reflection of the lights against cool tiles. The dull brown of the chairs. The steaming barbecue. The sliced red meat arranged on clean white plates. Bokuto’s hand, stretched in front of him.

“Akaashi sits next to me,” Bokuto is saying. “Move over, Saru.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“Always the favorite, isn’t he? You’re obvious as always, Bokuto.”

“Shut up! Here, Akaashi, eat up. Have some beef.”

“Hey, you took that from me!” 

“It’s shared! Shared! Don’t skimp out, Komi!” 

“Ah, good to see you, Akaashi. It turns out Bokuto could make it tonight, after all.” 

“Yes,” Akaashi said, picking at the beef. “It’s a nice surprise.” 

The meat slides down his throat, forming a clump in his stomach. He loosens his tie and joins in the conversation. Konoha is wearing an ill-fitting suit, which everyone ridicules. Washio got a haircut, but it doesn’t fit his face. Onaga has a fiancée, and he has a folder on his phone dedicated to her. They laugh easily. Akaashi laughs along.

Bokuto sits close to him. He has an arm slung over Akaashi’s shoulder, dangling close to his heart. He smells like sake. A rosy flush covers his face, and his words are wild and loud. He still has another glass in front of him, liquid clear like water, though the smell was undeniable. Akaashi has some noodles, and ignores the strength of the arm covering his back. He tries to make his face agreeable. Nobody seems to notice anything is wrong.

“Somebody should take Bokuto home,” Sarukai says, the night waned. Konoha has left for the last train. They linger in front of the store. Bokuto is draped across Akaashi’s shoulders, jacket in his hand. 

“I think he lives close to you, Akaashi,” Onaga says. “If it’s not a bother—”

“I can get home myself!” Bokuto snaps, shoving away from Akaashi. He stumbles over his feet, clattering against the wooden signboard. 

“Come on, Bokuto, you’re too old for this now,” Komi says, holding him steady by the forearm. “Just let Akaashi walk you there.” 

“I don’t mind,” Akaashi says, polite. 

“No! I mean it! I don’t need it.” Bokuto stands, a little uneasily, but on his own. Akaashi’s former teammates exchange glances. The moon already crests above them, hanging in the sky. Akaashi always had the final say. He should drag Bokuto home with him. He knows this. 

“Very well,” Akaashi says. “Bokuto-san, please get home safely. Let’s meet again next time.” 

Komi clearly has reservations, but he has family waiting at home, as well. They bid good night and part ways. Akaashi inhales the fresh air deeply, letting the crispness fill his lungs. Inside the store, the meat stench had clung like a film across his nose and mouth. But the outside air whipped and grated his lungs. A chill settled underneath his skin and along his cooling sweat. A streetlamp flickers above him. 

He turns around. Bokuto hadn’t drunk so much that he couldn’t warble his way back home. But he had an unfocused look in his eyes and shakiness to his limbs that’d been unlike him. Akaashi hadn’t looked directly at him, but he had seen the trembling hand, the loose tie, the scuffed shoes. He retraces his steps down the quiet road, where tall apartment buildings loom above him. Over the cement walls, he can hear faint shouting and laughter. 

A block away from the store, he sees him. Bokuto sits underneath a streetlamp. The dull light casts a thick and warped shadow away from him, giving an impression of antlers, one broken, atop his head. Akaashi has been unfeeling all night, but he feels now. The nostalgic feeling wraps around his body. Exasperation. Acceptance. Relief. Once more, Bokuto needs him. 

The relief wanes when he steps forward. His hands feel cold. 

Bokuto had vomited blood, some over his jacket, most across the gravel. Inky bile mixes with dark red blood. He steps forward with mechanic lifelessness, staring down at the vomit. Bokuto’s hand is unclean, but he grabs Akaashi’s pants leg, twisting the fabric across his fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says. “Please don’t look, Akaashi.” 

Not again, Akaashi thought. But he had never seen this sight before.  
  


* * *

  
“You have a nice place,” Bokuto says, leaning back on the couch. He’s wearing Akaashi’s pajamas and robe, though the shirt stretches thin across his shoulders. His hair is damp from his shower. Akaashi pulls the throw blanket higher over Bokuto’s chest. 

“You can watch television,” he says. “Would you like some toast?”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Akaashi.” Bokuto crosses his arms, petulant and pouting. Akaashi places the television remote close to him on the glass coffee table, and leaves for the kitchen to prepare some soup. Over the counter, he can see the television flash on, picking through the news until it settles on a cartoon. Bokuto always did like hero stories. 

The toaster coils flare bright red. Akaashi tucks his fingers together, forming a steeple over his loosened tie. He’d expected Bokuto to start cheering for the cartoon hero by now. But he could only trace a faint rasping from the couch. He arranges the toast on two plates, delivering them on a tray to the coffee table. 

“I’m not hungry,” Bokuto says. 

“I am,” Akaashi says. He picks up the toast and chews with careful measure. Bokuto watches him, then picks up his own toast and bites into it. He gnaws for a few seconds, but he’d apparently not been bluffing, for once. He sets the toast back down, and leans into the pillow. 

“I’m sorry, Akaashi.”

“At least I don’t have to worry about crumbs.” 

“Not about the toast! I didn’t want to be a bother to you tonight.” Bokuto’s palms cover his eyes. 

“You’re not a bother. But I still think it’s better if you went to a hospital.”

“They say nothing’s wrong with me,” Bokuto says, finding something new to sulk upon. “They ran a lot of tests. You have to stay really still for some of them. But everything’s fine and I don’t want them to keep me in that hospital bed again.” 

Akaashi thought about the blood stain on the jacket and _the blood spread over the grass, a dark pool beneath him_. He grimaces, touching his head. Bokuto hasn’t noticed, busy with his hands around his stomach.

“And it must be awkward for you, huh. Me being around. I should leave soon.”

“You’re not fit to move in that state.” 

“I’m going, whether you want it or not!” 

“You’ll sleep here tonight.” Akaashi stands up. “You can take my bed.”

“Akaashi, I’m serious!” Bokuto catches his wrist. A few hours ago, his grip had been strong on Akaashi’s shoulders. But his fingers fell limply over the wrist now. Akaashi stares down at the weak fingers, iciness freezing his stomach. His condition was deteriorating too fast. He wanted to drive him to the hospital, but Bokuto would resist. He couldn’t afford him hurting himself in the fuss. Akaashi pinches his finger, thinking furiously. None of the options were good. 

“You have that cool look in your eye, Akaashi.” Bokuto grins, hand dropping to the side of the couch. “Like you got a plan.”

“It would be easier if you actually cooperated, Bokuto-san.” 

“I didn’t come tonight to give you trouble. I just wanted to see you again.” That easy confident grin. Akaashi drops to his knees, level with Bokuto. He had wanted to see Bokuto again too. But he rationalized it away, thinking it would best for the both of them to move on. Once more, Bokuto in his simplicity and greediness had simply taken what he wanted. Akaashi wished he could hate him for that. 

_He hated him. He had never hated him more, this ugly hatred boiling inside him that tasted vile and hot on his tongue. He grabbed an antler and snapped it off with a hideous crack, splinters flying into the blood._

“Akaashi?” 

Akaashi held his head, gripping tight across his temples. Bokuto touches his cheek, his calloused fingers gruff on his skin. He had forgotten about the charm of Bokuto’s gruffness. Bokuto fumbles to trace down to his chin, a whispery movement. His eyes are wide and unblinking. He knows no other way of comfort. 

“Bokuto-san,” he says, not intended as a rebuke. But Bokuto snatches his hand back. 

“I’m sorry, Akaashi, I wasn’t thinking!” 

Perhaps Akaashi should have rebuked him, but even his weaknesses could consume him. He rises to where his own jacket had been tossed on a kitchen chair. His phone had been tucked inside an inner pocket, and he scrolls through his contacts for inspiration. Underneath the listing for Koutarou, he sees Kuroo-san, and considers calling him.

_You’re killing him, Akaashi._

The voice bites into his skull, and he drops the phone onto the table. 

“Akaashi?” 

“Everything’s fine.” He scrambles to recover his phone. 

“Then sit over here. I want to look at your face.” 

He ambles over, limbs heavy, and perches on the sofa’s edge. He flips through his home screen, but the same default wallpaper does not mesmerize him. Bokuto, true to his word, looks at him. Akaashi glances up, feigning interest in the distant toaster against the wall, but peers at Bokuto in a sideways glance. Even years later, Bokuto still has a youthful smile. The strength in his face has been refined, even with the bags under his eyes.

When he looks at him, he sees the amber tinge scattering across the sheets, pillow plump and round underneath his hand. He tastes overcooked eggs and charred pancakes, and hears the firm rattling of pots and pans under a running faucet. If he looks up, he can see Bokuto’s broad shoulders, muscles shifting like shadows underneath his shirt. Against the streaming sunlight, Bokuto turns and calls for him with the same fond smile. 

He does not look at him.

“I still love you. I’m sorry, Akaashi.” Bokuto throws a hand over his eyes. 

“Get some rest, Bokuto-san. I’ll get another blanket in case the night is cold.”

“Hey, Akaashi—”

His linen closet does not have any blankets. He opens the shuttered door, and muffles himself against a pillow case. His head splits open. He sinks into the cool cloth, the wooden slats catching between his ribs and leaving bruises on his insides. 

_I still love you._

_Always the favorite, isn’t he?_

_Here, Akaashi, eat up._

Without any blankets, he returns to his living room. The television had been turned off. Everything was the same as every night, when he flicked on the lights to his empty apartment. But Bokuto slept now, on his couch, the blanket sliding off his hips and curling at the foot of the couch. Akaashi picks up the thin blanket, tucking it once more against Bokuto’s shoulders. 

He sits with his feet tucked underneath him. Bokuto’s face is slack, but has a bloodless complexion. 

Akaashi could drive to the hospital. But Bokuto had made it sound like he had already been in a hospital for a prolonged period. Nobody had told Akaashi, which meant nobody knew about the hospital stay. Akaashi felt a soft weakness give way inside him. He wanted to have been there, sitting patient by the bed. But this was a right he had forsaken. 

The alcohol coaxes a fog over his head. The scene shifts before him. Akaashi grips Bokuto’s limp hand. 

His sparse apartment falls away, walls peeling into a shadowy grove. The smell of crisp toast fades into the fresh scent of damp leaves. His carpet crumbles into soil. Wind brushes the nape of his neck, and sharp bird cries ring through the thicket of trees. He does not let go of Bokuto’s hand. 

Akaashi sleeps, and dreams.


	2. the judas seat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story takes some elements from Noragami, but you don't need to know Noragami or not know Noragami to understand it. Thank you!

Akaashi saw Bokuto across the burnt village, over the heads of fifty corpses. The stench of burning flesh spread through the air, creeping like a heavy cloud. Charred and broken wood punctured the dirt, standing over the dead. The sunset, aflame, cast menacing shadows over the splattered blood. Akaashi felt nothing until he saw Bokuto.

Bokuto stood like a monolith, like he had not moved for centuries, perched on the horizon. A wild grin crossed his face, dangerous burning eyes peering over the destroyed ground. Two sharp antlers sprouted from his head, and he had pushed up his dark haori to reveal the strength of his arms. Everything about him was ancient, sacred, and powerful. Akaashi stood still in the broken village. 

But Bokuto had seen him, unmistakable in his piercing gaze. His grin never faltered, sharp eyebrows only rising. When he stepped, the world scattered to his whim. His white hakama brushed against the blood, but never stained. Akaashi could not move, held under the sunset eyes. He tried to return the gaze, placid, but Bokuto towered over him with inches and millenniums. 

“Hey, hey, hey! So we have a survivor.” Bokuto grinned with all his teeth. “I should kill you.”

“But you won’t,” Akaashi said, hoarse. 

“Why would you say that?” Bokuto inclined his head. Akaashi could not see any weapons within his reach, but the heavy aura around Bokuto proclaimed loudly that he could kill anything he wanted. Akaashi licked his dry lips.

“You would have killed me already if you wanted.”

“Hey, hey. You’re a smart one.” Bokuto laughed, and the trees trembled. “Good! I like smart ones! Hey, come with me and become my attendant. I’ll take care of you, and you’ll worship me.” 

“Are you a god?” 

“Yes.” Bokuto’s grin slipped off his face, leaving a terrifying cold. “And what do you remember about yourself?”

“I… My name is Akaashi Keiji.” He opened his mouth to speak more, but nothing came. His forehead crinkled. He could not remember his age or his life, or how he came to the destroyed village. When he looked down, he saw a threadbare kimono and worn sandals. 

“Good, you don’t need to remember anything else. I like you, Akaashi. I’ll teach you everything. But first, the sun should disappear already.” Bokuto held up the edge of his haori to the sky and swiped across the horizon. The night fell immediately, covering the burnt village in darkness. The moonlight revealed a path along a grove, bright eyes shining in the trees. Bokuto walked fearlessly along the dirt road, and Akaashi followed. The darkness clouded his eyes, but he could see Bokuto clearly.

“As my attendant, you’ll do whatever I say,” Bokuto said, “But there are rules. One! I hate mirrors! You must cover them all without looking at them. Two! When we have guests, you will wear a mask. Three! Never enter the main hall where I rest. Four! Never touch the purification water. Five! You must never defile me. If you break any of these rules, I will expel you.” 

“It would be easier if you wrote them down for me.”

“I’ve already forgotten them!” Bokuto laughed, and loud hooting echoed in the trees. Akaashi jerked away, surprised at the beating of thousands of wings. The sound was deafening, and fragile leaves shook from the might. Bokuto slowed in his step, turning around to grin at Akaashi.

“I am Bokuto, the owl god. And gods only have one rule to follow. I’m not telling you, though.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Really?” Bokuto trailed back, blinking rapidly. “You’re not curious?”

“I am not.”

Bokuto fell silent. Akaashi could almost relax beside this quiet owl god. Without the antlers, he only stood a few inches above him. He walked almost meekly behind Akaashi, swiveling his head to try and catch his curiosity. Akaashi was curious, but not about the rules of a god. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to recall his past. He was fortunate enough to recall his name and to be taken under a god, but he could not remember if the god had been the cause of the slaughter or a bystander. Judging by his joy at Akaashi’s amnesia, he would not be forthcoming. 

“It’s really interesting,” Bokuto said, blinking rapidly.

“I have enough to remember,” Akaashi said. “There’s no consistency with an attendant’s rules, is there.”

“Of course there is! But I won’t tell you. Besides, there’s another informal rule.” Bokuto grinned. “That is, all rules must be broken in time.”

“But if I break them, I’ll be expelled.”

“We’re here,” Bokuto said. His sandals clattered against the dirt, stepping away from the path. Akaashi followed him to a discreet flat to the woods, old wooden buildings scattered between pathways. The humble smaller buildings stood with comfort, squat and secure on the ground. The largest building stretched, simple and pure, against the frame of the redwood forest. A bright red torii stood stately before stone steps. The shrine itself had bold stone supports mixed with ornate wooden decoration. A golden design weaved in the doorway and across the walls, intricacy surrounding simpler images of owls in flight. The roof sloped, foreboding, from above, each tile adding another layer of delicacy. 

A few people swept across the stone steps. They raised their hands at Bokuto’s appearance.

“Welcome back,” someone said. 

“I picked up an attendant,” Bokuto said, “This is Akaashi. Akaashi, this is Komi, Saru, Konoha, Washio, Onaga, Suzumeda, and Shirofuku. You’ll get along with them.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” Akaashi murmured, trying to memorize the names to the faces. 

“Welcome. We can show you around,” one of them said. 

“I’ll show him around! This is my shrine, I know it best. Akaashi, that’s purification water. Don’t touch it.” Bokuto pointed to a stone basin. “There’s a river near where you’ll be sleeping. Use that.”

“We didn’t have to do that,” another said. 

“Akaashi is Akaashi! Come here, Akaashi. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.” Bokuto stomped away towards a simpler house. The conversation was remarkably casual for a god, but the attendants only laughed and returned to sweeping. 

The house had a similar simplistic layout to its outside. It had a hearth and a simple bed. A stone pestle sat by the hearth, fine traces of millet in the mortar. A single scroll hung opposite of the bed, an ink painting of an owl. Akaashi closed his eyes, trying to feel any sensation within his body. But he was neither surprised nor disappointed by the set-up. He could not tell where he had lived before. 

Bokuto sprawled on the bed, kicking off his sandals.

“You’ll have dinner duty,” Bokuto said. “There’ll be fresh food from the offerings. But remember, I like meat. You’ll be cleaning the shrine or something in the day. Or giving me personal massages.” 

“Can I refuse.”

“You don’t have to clean the shrine.” 

Akaashi sighed. 

“No dinner duty tonight, because Saru already did it. Are you tired, Akaashi? Get some rest and I’ll get you fresh clothes in the morning.” 

“Thank you.” That was surprisingly thoughtful. Bokuto rolled off the bed, sitting on his knees. Akaashi furrowed his brow. Bokuto did not move, grinning and patting the bed. Slowly, Akaashi settled down into the warm bed. Bokuto’s bright eyes bore a hole through his shoulders. 

“Perhaps you should take care of your other duties, Bokuto-sama,” he said. 

“I consider it my duty to watch my attendants go safely to sleep! And –san is better.” 

“Bokuto-san, please get out.”

Bokuto drummed his fingers over his knees. Akaashi shut his eyes, but the feeling of being watched crept under his skin. His spine and scalp itched. If he opened his eyes, he thought he would see two amber eyes settled on him, and a bright knowing grin. He evened out his breathing instead, feigning a hasty sleep. 

Minutes later, he heard Bokuto’s footsteps against the tatami. A strong hand rested on his shoulder, and Bokuto leaned down upon him. It felt like the night sky itself had draped over his side, a cold and threatening chill.

“Poor child.” In his voice, the faint calls of owls resonated, a low territorial hooting. Akaashi squeezed his eyes shut. He felt he had been claimed. Footsteps faded towards the door, then disappeared in a flutter of wings. 

Akaashi breathed deep to his stomach. When he cracked open an eye, he saw an abandoned haori by the doorway, and a large owl flying into the sky. When the owl faded into the forest, Akaashi finally rolled over, fist over his forehead. He felt neither tired nor hungry, but he could both sleep and eat if he chose. But no memories pounded inside his head. 

The owl scroll had piercing eyes, and watched him when he slept.  
  


* * *

  
“Sorry, Akaashi, we’ve done our best,” Komi said, clasping his hands. “And we did all the usual, too.” 

“The usual?” 

“Well, see for yourself.” Komi sat down on the steps, leaning back on his hands. Akaashi climbed further up the steps. Sarukai and Konoha crowded around the gilded gold door, shouting into the wooden crack.

“Hey, god, you would look so cool if you dressed up!” 

“I heard a prayer today that said the owl god was a sharp-looking god!” 

“It has to be our god, after all.” 

“Maybe we should give it a rest for today,” Komi said, slumped against the stone. “It’s no use.” 

“Is this the main hall?” Akaashi glanced at the marble etchings of owls along the wall. The owl design repeated across the shrine, every owl distinguishable but each fearsome in its own manner. With their wings were spread and talons outstretched, they carved out an ominous figure. 

“Just the hall of worship. The main hall is behind that. It’s where our great and fierce god lives, so you can’t go in there. But this one’s okay.” 

“I see.” Akaashi shoved open the door. 

The room was simple, but prestigious. White banners with black lettering had been hung around the room. Wooden wands with white streamers had a modest presence. A more elaborate wooden set-up resided at the front and center. The wood scent felt fresh and brittle when he inhaled. In admiring the view, he almost kicked over the god in the middle of the room.

“Please get up, Bokuto-san.” 

“Leave me alone, Akaashi.” Bokuto hugged the ground, hair limp and messy. 

“All you have to do is the obi.” He picked up sash, silk soft in his hands. “You did it yesterday.” 

“Onaga helped me yesterday, but he went to play in the human realm.” Bokuto sulked, hands curling into weak fists. “I don’t care! I’m not going out today.” 

“You said you would get fresh clothes for me today.” 

“Tell Saru to get it for you! If he hadn’t gone to the human realm, too. He probably has. They’ve probably all gone.” 

“You can hear Sarukai outside the door, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi could hear him, as well. They clustered on the steps, chatting about the weather. He didn’t particularly care about new clothes, but guilt did not move Bokuto. He twisted the obi in his hands.

“I’ll give you a massage if you get dressed,” Akaashi said slowly. Bokuto sat up on his elbows. The mournful droop of his eyes had perked upwards, and a gleeful grin now crossed his face. Akaashi felt like he had made a horrible and terrible mistake. Bokuto stretched out his arms, clearly waiting for the expected massage. 

“A waist massage,” Bokuto said, wiggling his fingers. “You promised, Akaashi.” 

He had promised no such thing. But as he slid his fingers over the thin kosode, he realized he knew nothing about massages. The simple warmth seemed to satisfy Bokuto, though, given his appreciative hum and curl of the toes. Akaashi traced along the back muscles, thumbing over his hips. Outside, he could hear the bird calls and the faint conversation. Light dust swirled in the sunbeam, casting a bright stripe over Bokuto’s shoulders. The warm, firm feeling was pleasant under his palms. 

“Do you know any stories, Akaashi?” Bokuto murmured. He sounded sleepy, arm tucking under his head. 

“No.”

“Humans like to tell stories. I like stories, too. Aren’t stories with heroes the coolest?” Bokuto grinned, eyes closed. “I’ll tell you a story.”

“If you insist.”

“Sound more enthusiastic, Akaashi!”

“If you insist, Bokuto-san.”

“I’ll tell you a good story. In the beginning, there was nothing but me. But one night, I had a long dream. It lasted seven days and seven nights. And from that dream, the world was born. It was just a little egg! Nothing compared to the big me! Back then, I had two great big horns. They were beautiful and long. So I broke off my horns and placed them on the egg, and that’s how the mountains grew. But I love looking into the mirror, and when I saw what I had done, I wept for three days and three nights! It was a lot of crying. And that’s how the oceans grew. But I was still jealous, so I stole the antlers from the deer. My children have horns, but I’m the most handsome. Don’t you think so, Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san.”

“You think that’s impressive, right? Creating the world?” 

“Very impressive, Bokuto-san.” 

“I know, right! Well, I didn’t mean to do it,” Bokuto said, “but I’m glad I dreamed this up.”

“I thought you hated mirrors.”

“I love them because I’m incredibly handsome. Right, Akaashi?” 

“It’s time to get dressed,” Akaashi said, knuckling the spine. Bokuto yelped, squirming out of his grip. He had seen no mirrors in the shrine, so he had assumed Bokuto had been telling the truth about the first rule. But Bokuto was too simple-minded to keep track of his lies. Akaashi stretched the obi thin across his fists. 

“Make it nice, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, resigned. Akaashi thought he knew how to tie an obi. He had seen it before. His brow furrowed, but he concentrated on wrapping the obi around Bokuto’s waist. He placed his palm on Bokuto’s back to straighten it, his warmth now familiar in his hand.

“Why antlers?” Akaashi glanced at the antlers, covered in soft velvet. 

“They reminded me of trees. Are you done yet, Akaashi?”

“Be patient, Bokuto-san.”

“Because I stole the antlers, they have less power. But they still store a lot of power in there, so don’t touch them, Akaashi.”

“I won’t, Bokuto-san.”

“Really, don’t touch them! They’re powerful.”

“I said I won’t.”

“You don’t want to touch them, even a little bit?”

“No.”

“Come on, Akaashi!” Bokuto’s shoulders dropped dramatically. “Well, I get it. If my tears can create an ocean, imagine what else I can do.”

“Tie your own obi?” But Akaashi finished the knot, stepping back on the creaking wooden board. The day before, Bokuto had been formidable. Today, his power was simple and harnessed. Even in his playful anger to Akaashi, his teeth were bared and gnashed, pupils thin and harsh. His whole face drew back into a sneer. But he settled into a gentle grin, smacking Akaashi on the back. 

He supposed that was the appropriate congratulations.

“Oh, you did it.” Komi clapped his hands. Bokuto settled in front of the stone basin, wetting his hair into tufts, tucking them around his antlers. 

“Does he sulk everyday?” 

“It’s not that bad. He has his days, but he’s a good god. We wouldn’t serve him otherwise. Oh, and he’s a good guy. He won’t complain to our faces if we play in the human realm, but he’ll definitely sulk.” 

“What do you do in the human realm?”

“We were all originally owls, so we just hunt. If you go along the path, you’ll reach the soft spots where the spiritual realm and human realm cross. But I wouldn’t go alone until you can tell.” Komi grimaced, resting his wrists over his knees. “If you get lost, Bokuto has to find you and sometimes he takes a while.” 

“But I find you in the end!” Bokuto said loudly, hair damp but upright. “I find all lost souls.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bokuto, please listen to the prayers for today, too. You’ve been spending too much time slaying blight, they’ve really piled up…” 

Komi lead Bokuto away with an experienced ease. 

“I’ll show you around the kitchen, Akaashi,” Konoha said, waving. “We can make dinner together tonight.”

The kitchen house was closer to the river, enough to hear the burbling through the open door. Sacks of food lined up a side of the room, plump with offerings. Different ladles and pots scattered around the room, cold to the touch but well-worn around the edges. A cooked meat scent clung to the walls and floors. Akaashi washed and boiled the rice, the hard shell fading into a sticky softness under his hands.

They served the meal at the hall while the rice steamed hot and meat sizzled in the bowls. Bokuto insisted Akaashi sit on his closest left, which was fortunate when he ate too quickly and needed cool water for his burnt tongue. Akaashi did not feel hunger, but he ate. The rice clung to his chopsticks. Shirofuku ate anything that remained, and Bokuto sulked after he spilled sake on his night haori. Akaashi took away the dishes to wash by the river.

“Akaashi! Will you sleep soon?” Bokuto emerged from the darkness with a rustling of feathers. Akaashi did not blink at the shattered silence.

“Not particularly soon,” he said. “You should leave first for your business.” 

“That’s too bad. I wanted to watch you sleep.” Bokuto sprawled on the ground. Akaashi considered the laundry for the next day. 

“Is it really so fascinating?” he asked instead. 

“You might dream something great. I dreamt up this world. Maybe you’ll dream up another world.” Bokuto grinned. Akaashi ran his finger along the plate, staring down at where the moon scattered over the restless river.

“Can you see into dreams?”

“Some creatures can. I can’t see into yours. But I like to watch you sleep, anyway. I wonder why. Hey, are you getting along with the others?”

“More or less.” Akaashi raised his hand from the icy water, droplets trickling from his fingertips. “They call you a good god.”

“That’s right, that’s exactly right!” 

“Would you really say you were a good god?” Akaashi could recall the bloodlust in Bokuto’s eyes when he first met him, burning fiercer than the sun. But Bokuto only laughed, loud and obnoxious. 

“Tell me, what kind of god am I to you?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m sure you’re lying to me.” Akaashi stared into Bokuto’s eyes. Bokuto’s smile never waned, but only grew wider. The wind blew over the two of them, sitting close together by the riverside. 

“You’re right, Akaashi. But you lied to me, too.” Bokuto threw his head back. He usually had an aggressive grin, but he smiled instead. He exposed the long line of his neck, unafraid. Akaashi couldn’t recollect any lies he had told, but Bokuto’s smile spoke of confidence. Irritated, Akaashi flicked water to his feet. 

“Hey! Fine, fine, I’ll go.” Bokuto stood up, straightening his clothes. “I have business anyway. Next full moon, I’ll be holding a feast for other gods. You can ask the other attendants for help, but you’re in charge of cooking it.”

“Thank you for the honor.” 

“You’re irritated, right? You don’t want to do it.” Bokuto ruffled his hair, standing up. “I’m relying on you, Akaashi.” 

Akaashi ran his fingers through his hair, trying to settle it. The sound of wings filled the air, the ancient redwood trees bending to its force. An owl flew away, leaving ripples in the night sky.  
  


* * *

  
He had found extra plates for the upcoming feast when he heard a commotion outside. 

“And what did I say about overexerting yourself,” Komi was saying. 

“I got it, I got it!” Bokuto grimaced, scratching at his wrist. Akaashi approached them by the stone basin. Bokuto’s hand was covered a bruise, climbing the way up to his bare forearm. The shiny purple shifted into a low green. Bokuto seemed more annoyed than troubled, though he was gritting his teeth and sweated across his forehead. When Bokuto dipped his arm into the purification water, the bruise disappeared.

“This is too often. Do you need more dinner?”

“I don’t need anything! I’m fine!” Bokuto dried his arm over his jacket. “Akaashi, if you have that much free time, then come with me!”

“Calm down, Bokuto,” Komi said, the familiar look of anticipating trouble dawning on his face.

“I am calm!” Bokuto grabbed Akaashi by the hand. The remnants of the mysterious bruise had still left him sensitive and he grimaced. Then he gripped Akaashi’s hand again, even harder, and pulled him towards a building. When Akaashi glanced back, Komi was looking apologetic. 

They entered a fresh building, filled to the brim with fabric. Someone had been stitching some together and had abandoned their task. Bokuto released Akaashi’s hand and began to pull down the silk and hemp, still scowling. 

He yanked down a shimmering white silk cloth. Outside, the clouds covered the sun, shifting in the wind until they coated the sky. Bokuto pulled down a dark red cotton cloth with a faint green pattern, and Akaashi could hear trees snapping in the forest. When Bokuto grabbed a golden hemp cloth, Akaashi turned towards the door in time to see the lightning blitz across the sky.

“Bokuto!” someone was yelling.

“Close the door, Akaashi!” Bokuto kicked in his heels, tossing the gold fabric at him. Akaashi caught it, expecting the sky to erupt in bright light again. Nothing happened. The faint glow from the cloth faded, away from Bokuto’s hands. 

Bokuto still had a dark blue silk cloth wrapped around his fists, a faint white pattern running across the layers. A rain had started outside. Akaashi placed the faded yellow cloth to the floor, staring at the pattering of the rain. The other attendants had obviously left the task to him, but he wasn’t so experienced to know how to stop a god. A harsh wind was rising across the shrine, rattling the wooden frames. 

At least Bokuto had stopped pulling down the fabric. He sat on his heels now, still frowning. He always had bright eyes, but they shone with a strange light, electricity rippling over his narrowed pupils. His face had settled into a stubborn frown. Akaashi would need to take advantage of the calm before Bokuto grew upset again. He grabbed the gold fabric and the white, unrolling enough to place them atop each other. With great exaggeration, he pretended to be thinking, fingers skirting the softness. He could hear the thunder outside, echoing in his bones, and the wind banged against the door. 

“What are you doing?” 

Success. Bokuto was lured out of his moping, at least temporarily. The anger had not left his mouth. Akaashi turned away, taking another shade of gold to compare. 

“I wanted something new for the feast.” He wondered if he was making a mistake. The fabric obviously was a higher quality than the simple kimono he was wearing. If the cloth had been reserved for Bokuto, he would surely be offended. 

But Bokuto brightened up, a new grin on his face. 

“Then you should try everything!” This time, when Bokuto grabbed the fabric, nothing happened outside. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it didn’t increase. As long as Akaashi was careful with his words, Bokuto would keep in a better mood. 

“Will there many gods at this feast?” Akaashi asked, trying to subtly encourage him. It struck a good chord in Bokuto, who only brightened again. 

“You bet, Akaashi. I invited everyone I knew, even the ones I hate. And not all of them are gods. Some demons, too.”

“Is that really a wise idea?” Akaashi raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but not caring enough to object. 

“They won’t hurt you. Listen, both gods and demons need humanity’s belief to live. We’ll die without it. It’s just that gods need offerings and worship, too. Gods have a lot of needs, it’s really annoying. But I’m really strong, so it doesn’t bother me.” Bokuto swiveled his head. “But your job is to just take care of the amazing me! Got it!” 

“Yes.”

“You can sound more enthusiastic!” 

“Yes, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi picked through a dark cloth. “What do you do, as a god?”

“Lots of things! I’m more powerful at night, so that’s when I do all things. With the right voice, I can make empires fall. With the right feather, I can bring prosperity to a house.” Bokuto frowned, holding up red silk. “Well, gods deal with a lot of things, too. The humans kill my children.” 

He said the last sentence with indifference, but Akaashi heard the different hitch in his tone. Akaashi hadn’t completely closed the door. A gray mist shrouded the buildings outside. Even the bright fabrics of the room had been dulled, but the colors still spilled across the floor, waves of blues and golds. Bokuto sat in the middle, the faint light only shining on his bright eyes, staring into something unknown. The building creaked around them. Akaashi could feel the silk fall from his cold fingers. 

“You asked me about what kind of god I am.” Bokuto turned, lean shadow falling behind him. “I’d say I was a cruel god. In the old days, I killed many other birds on a fickle whim. Even now, I grant fortune and death on the same whim. In return, humans will kill for any part of me.” 

“Really, now.”

“Sound more impressed!” Bokuto made another face, like he had eaten something sour. Akaashi actually had been impressed, but he didn’t want to feed into Bokuto’s mood. He said things about cruelty, but sadness never left his eyes. 

“If you’re so cruel, then perhaps I should run away.” Akaashi glanced at the dim forest, where the pelting rain had flattened down the pines and painted the bark. 

“I’d be really mad and sad! Or sad and mad! Something would come first! Don’t run away, I’ll give you anything you want. You’re a lot more patient with me than my other attendants. They won’t stay with me like this.” 

“They’ll leave you alone?”

“More or less.”

“And you don’t make them stay?”

“How?” Bokuto frowned. 

“You could punish those who don’t stay by your side.”

“Akaashi, you’re a lot more devious than you look.” Bokuto gaped at him. “But I wouldn’t do that! If they don’t want to stay, they don’t have to. Let them play their owl games. I only ask that they don’t desecrate me, that’s all.”

“The fifth rule,” Akaashi said slowly, repeating the rules in his head. 

“Well, it’s the rule.” Bokuto seemed vaguely confused about Akaashi’s statement. He likely had forgotten he had given him the rules. 

“And if they break it?”

“I guess I’ll get really mad.” Bokuto screwed up his face thoughtfully. “I might make them wash the statues.” 

“Very cruel, Bokuto-san.” 

“Are you afraid of me, Akaashi?”

Bokuto leaned close to him, hand flat against rumpled cloth. He had been examining white silk, which draped over his hand and into Akaashi’s lap. Bokuto felt warm. The rain clattered quietly on the roof, a sound from years ago. Even in the gray light, Akaashi could see a faint flush across his face. He was close enough that Akaashi could trace the hard line of his face. His hands felt like stone. He thought Bokuto might kiss him. He thought he might want Bokuto to kiss him.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whispered, “Don’t get the wrong idea. To live, gods take what is freely given. Worship, prayer, sacrifice. But I won’t take what you don’t give.” 

“I see,” Akaashi said, though he was stalling for time. He could see Bokuto’s collarbone, sharp and angled. 

“Well,” Bokuto said, leaning back just as suddenly, “Not that I would ask you for anything! I’ll always give you everything! That’s enough thinking from me today! I’ve decided! I’m going to fly around until I get tired or run into a tree!” 

“I see,” Akaashi said, though this time he was surprisingly disappointed. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be kissed. More importantly, he should be worried that Bokuto flying into a tree was a normal thing. 

But he couldn’t quite look at Bokuto’s mouth without a heat returning to his cheeks.

“Make sure you clean up the mess, Akaashi!” Bokuto pointed to the fabric across the floor. When he turned towards the door, the tips of his ears were distinctly pink. Akaashi stared at them, even as they disappeared into tufts of feathers. The owl flapped into the sky, rain not touching his wings. 

Akaashi pulled Saru to help pick up the cloth. When he returned to his house at night, he took down the owl scroll. On the back, he had begun inking out a map to the human world based on the scraps of what the owls had told him. Left for a deep forest, full of food. Right for a village. Straight ahead to the ocean. Anywhere for an escape from a cruel god. By the candlelight, the thin lines lead straight to his freedom. He picked up a brush and dipped it into the ink. 

Deliberately, he painted over the map in broad strokes.  
  


* * *

  
“Akaashi, Bokuto forgot how to change the trees back.”

“Akaashi, Bokuto can’t get down from the roof.”

“Akaashi, Bokuto accidentally stole a sacred orb.”

Akaashi wiped the sweat from his forehead. When Bokuto had said a feast, a faint line had creased his brow. Cooking for Bokuto was simple. Whether it was cooked, raw, or simply slapped on a plate, Bokuto would eat it all and proclaim its savory deliciousness. But as he suspected, other gods had other diets. A fish needed seasoning, simmered, and steaming. Soup needed to be stirred, and meat needed to be grilled. The kitchen house crowded out the door with attendants, steam fanning out languidly through the door, and splashes of vinegar covered seasoning. Dessert had to be baked and fresh pomegranates arranged on plates. 

He hadn’t expected Bokuto to be so troublesome that even he was drawn away from the kitchen, standing on the stone steps and watching the attendants laugh and work. Bokuto hunched over his knees, sentenced to a temporary leash beside Akaashi. His eyes drooped and his mouth slumped open, his motions dragged back by lethargy.

“You must have had a feast before,” Akaashi said. 

“It’s been so long. Akaashi, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed in you.”

“Akaashi!” 

“It’s surprising,” Akaashi said, bending back his fingers. “I thought nothing would disturb you as a god.”

“A lot of things don’t. When you get as old as me, a lot of your troubles seem small.” Bokuto hunched further into his knees. “But this is important.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Those demon cats hosted the last feast and it was really good. I want to show them that the Fukurodani shrine is even better.” 

“So you’re just jealous.”

“Don’t make it sound so petty, Akaashi.”

“That being said,” Akaashi said, surveying the broad land. “When have we done anything that wasn’t impressive? Please place more trust in us, Bokuto-san.”

“Akaashi—!” Bokuto clutched around his waist, and Akaashi politely shoved his face away from his hip. 

“Let’s get dressed, Bokuto-san. Nightfall will come soon.”

That night, Bokuto stayed still when Akaashi dressed him in his silk kimono, the fabric like a spun dream in his hands, owl crests emblazoned. The candles around the room illuminated his eyes, echoing a stronger fire. He stood straight when Akaashi smoothed down the fabric, usual slovenly crumpling eased into harsh cutting corners. The hall was quiet other than the sound of Akaashi’s footsteps. White layered with gold layered with black, faint patterns of owls disappearing and appearing with every flicker of the candles. He moved to hook the himo, but Bokuto stopped him. 

“Not tonight,” he said. The lethargy had drained with the sunlight, leaving only his clean muscles and hungry grin. 

Akaashi picked up his owl mask, a simple paper decoration covering the top half of his face. He tied the gold tassels behind his head. Something heavy and sweet hung in the air. 

Outside, all the houses had been lit with candles. Dark blue foxfire softly cast hues over the forest, disappearing in twisted pathways. The other attendants stood with their hands behind their backs, gaze focused on the forest. They, too, had masks, each subtly different in markings. Their faces were distinguishable, but he had no confidence in identifying them. They were owls tonight, beasts with carnal hunger. Bokuto drew on their strength from the center.

All was silent in the forest. Then it was not.

The night rippled, parting to reveal a large black cat slinking from the trees. The shadows peeled off, leaving behind a man in a blood red kimono, long black tail curled behind him. Others joined behind him, eyes glowing behind their masks, footsteps subtle. The man smirked, slow and lazy, but he did not step forward. 

Feathers rustled in another part of the forest. Two lanterns emerged from the woods, one tinged like the sun, the other a softer moon. They arrived louder, in squawks and fluttering, large crows vanishing into looming wings on tengu. A man emerged first, clad in black, but others crowded around him. A shadowy figure shimmered behind a lantern, and another watched from behind, dangerous and coiled.

More came, and more. The tendrils of a blue plant bloomed, a white eagle rustled the trees. Each force warped and added to the thick miasma. The candles flickered, sliding through tinges. The trees grew and shrank, twisting and fading and blooming in the same breath. The air drew to a trembling boil, dropping down into an icy cold. The gods gathered around the edges of the forest, unmoving and quiet. No more space remained between them.

Bokuto stepped forward. Though it was night, a shadow of a large owl fell over the land. The wings unfurled, sending a rolling gust of wind that threatened to snap the trees like twigs. It had been a long time since Akaashi had seen his bloodthirsty and terrible grin. He had a hideous face, eyes too big and sneer too wide, strength harnessed in powerful shoulders. Akaashi could hear the overlapping whispers of crying prayers and pained moans, the hoarse screams in uncaring forests. Brittle castles fell to licking flames, and the hungry earth drank the dripping blood. The wide owl eyes watched all below. He heard the praise, the veneration, the adulation. He felt the cries of glory and devotion, the purity and piousness. Babies cried, and laughter crested over the hills and forests. He saw death. He saw life.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto threw up his arms, laughing. “Come! Who will be my friend tonight?”

His jacket flew away and burst into thousands of bright feathers, and the world shimmered around them. The feast was laid about the tables, and the tips of the trees burst into a golden foxfire, casting a wondrous light down upon them. The roar of the gods echoed inside him, an ephemeral din. Akaashi thought that after the feast, the world would never be the same.  
  


* * *

  
“Akaashi, come drink with us!” 

Akaashi wiped his brow, glancing down at his drunken god. The human cat sat beside him on a red pillow, grinning. The heavy miasma didn’t deter either of them from feasting, but Akaashi felt the air beleaguered around him. He had been busy trying to contain the merriment to the land. The guardian deity continued to call down thunder and someone had dropped the sun down a well. Even as he poured the alcohol, he could hear glass breaking in the background. But Bokuto grinned, slumped on the demon cat’s shoulder, and beckoned him to come forward.

“This is Kuroo,” Bokuto said, “He’s a demon cat.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” Kuroo said, tail languid on the table. 

“It is an honor to meet you.” Akaashi took a formal seat beside them, but Bokuto knocked him over with a powerful smack on the back. 

“No need to be so polite! Kuroo, this is Akaashi, he’s my new attendant.”

“And already the main attendant, too. Impressive.” 

“That’s a great idea. Akaashi, you’re my main attendant now.”

“There’s seniority…” Akaashi murmured, but Bokuto clearly stopped listening. His dish had been licked clean. Kuroo’s plate had scraps of fish bones littering on top. A single cup sat between them. Akaashi considered using the excuse of retrieving food to escape them. But he would eventually have to come back, and judging by Bokuto’s warm arm around his shoulder, he wouldn’t have another excuse.

“Kuroo and I go way back. We’ve been enemies since I created the world,” Bokuto said, leaning against Akaashi’s shoulder. 

“Still going on about that, dumb owl? I was the one who created the world. I took all the disorder and chaos and shaped an island. Before me, there only an abyss. I woke up in the abyss, and since I am a fickle and powerful god, I decided to create a world for me. And I created such a great world. You should hear how I created the land.” Kuroo grinned once more, eyes flashing.

“He’s lying, lying! Don’t listen to a word of that lying cat!” Bokuto covered Akaashi’s ears. Akaashi politely sat still.

“The enemies part is true, at least. You don’t make enemies like him anymore. Though I’ve killed more blight than this dumb owl ever could,” Kuroo said. 

They talked dimly above him. Akaashi wiped his neck with a towel. He felt weakened in the wake of the gods. At least Bokuto leaning over his back made him feel better, even if he was squirming and talking to Kuroo. Perhaps attendants drew some strength from their respective gods. He got along with the other attendants, but they had all formerly been owls and shared an unknowable bond. He suspected they wouldn’t be happy with hearing about his new title, even if it was on a whim. 

A new strike of lightning flashed over his eyes. He fixed the owl mask over his face, trying to appease the aching.

“I’ll get more food,” he said, standing. Any momentary relief was better than none.

“Come back soon, Akaashi!” 

He walked through the crowd. The flowers bloomed too heavily, delicate pollen tossed in the air. A giant white eagle had crushed parts of the forest, the impact rumbling on the ground. The sun lantern had been retrieved, but a shadow crawled over it, now, to the anger of others. The constant flickering of light only weighed heavily on his shoulders. The air swelled too heavy. He sweated through the thin silk. When he finally made his way to the kitchen house, he exhaled sharply and shut the door behind him to the silent and cool room.

He pushed up his owl mask to his forehead, and splashed his face with river water. The chill tore at his face, his fingers tinged red from the cold water, but he felt better. He inhaled the breezy air, and exhaled fully. He heard the door open behind him, and he tilted his head, expecting to see another attendant retrieving food. 

“Bokuto was asking for you—” Kuroo said, and stopped. He was a silhouette, playful tail now motionless. In the next breath, his eyes snapped open, glowing in the darkness, and he leapt at Akaashi from the breadth of the room. Hands and legs flowed into sharp claws, no longer a man. 

Akaashi threw up his arms, grunting when fangs shredded his skin. The pain ripped up his arms, warm blood splattering across his face and bitterness filling his mouth. It hurt. The cat suffocated him, claws slicing hot pain over his chest. Akaashi scrabbled to clutch at the cat’s thick neck, digging his short nails into the sticky fur. The cat hissed, muscles and pounds smothering him, and Akaashi felt his arms begin to give. The saliva dripped and splattered down his arms, snarls rattling his bones.

An eerie scream shattered the room. Something flew into the cat, and the cat crashed through the walls of the house. Someone bent down beside Akaashi, pulling the owl mask back over his face. Akaashi breathed, hands twitching in pain. Bokuto stared at the rubble, where a man emerged with gravel rolling off his back. 

“Bokuto!” Kuroo stepped over the destroyed wall, rocks cracking under his phantom weight. “What have you done!” 

“Leave it, Kuroo!” Bokuto stood in front of him, arm flung out over Akaashi’s form. Akaashi’s hands felt cold. The pain tremors clutched over his body. The rest of the party, celebrating in merriment, hadn’t noticed them. They were crowded around where the sun and moon lanterns were fighting. Akaashi looked down, and thought he could see a sliver of bone through the meaty pulp of his arms and ribbons of his skin. He felt almost numb.

“If you want a fight, you got it, demon cat!” Bokuto grinned. His shadow twisted into the long form of an owl. Kuroo paced around him, slinking close to the ruins. Holding his bleeding arms close to his stomach, Akaashi managed to stand up, almost stumbling into Bokuto. 

“Enough,” Akaashi said. He knew Kuroo’s speed now. From the way Kuroo had leapt from the doorway, he knew the cat could cross the distance before he could utter a word. The pacing was a threat. The threat was real, of course, but still only a threat. Kuroo and Bokuto had drunk from the same cup, a ceremony of respect and friendship. Kuroo would not want to attack him now that Bokuto had arrived.

“Akaashi—”

“Hey,” Kuroo said, his tail swiping side to side. “Do you like Bokuto?”

“I don’t dislike him.” His head was swimming, but he felt irritated. He scowled at Kuroo, not looking at Bokuto.

“You’re killing him, Akaashi. If you like him, and wish to save him, you should leave.” Kuroo’s tail bristled. 

He could tell Bokuto started to say something, but he shoved Bokuto on the shoulder. The movement jolted down into his arms, and he gritted his teeth. When the pain ebbed, he stared placidly at Kuroo’s tense form. 

“My god is strong enough to bear my sins. And as for killing him, well.” Akaashi slowly smiled, calm and controlled. “Isn’t that my right?”

The hot air between them began to rise, and the clouds of dust sifting back into the dirt. Kuroo’s tail settled down, shoulders relaxing. He placed his hands on his hips, looking at Akaashi as if for the first time. His eyes were still narrow, grimace focused, but Akaashi had apparently said something convincing. 

“Akaashi! That was so cool! You’re the man,” Bokuto said, grabbing his shoulder. Akaashi winced at the jolt against his arms. 

“Let go, you idiot. He’s obviously in pain.” Kuroo cut through the fabric of his sleeves, unraveling clean strips of cloth. “Go to one of my attendants, Akaashi. Any one of them will tend to you.” He worked with speed and brevity, distrust in the quiet line of his jaw, but still apologizing with grace. 

“Thank you.” Akaashi’s heart still beat fast, but his mind was already working quicker. “And if you try to attack Bokuto on Fukurodani grounds again, I assure you, things will not go according to your plans.” 

“Oho?” Kuroo grinned, narrowing his gaze.

“Ohoho?” Bokuto blinked.

“Why are you surprised, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi left the two idiots to talk amongst themselves. They were already promising themselves alcohol, all friendliness reinstated between comrades. The party roared around him, but his steps felt lighter. The pain in his arms throbbed. He waded through gods and followers, the devout and the devoted. 

In the firelight, something shining caught his eye. 

A tengu had dropped a mirror on the ground. From his angle, he could only see the mirthful flames, jumping elated. His warm blood dripped down his fingers. Nobody looked at him. Deliberately, he bent down, covering the mirror with his hand. It felt cold. The party sang. Dancing shadows crossed the ground, warping into hideous monsters. They roared above him. If he closed his eyes, he saw the way Kuroo had looked at him. It had been worse than anger. 

It had been horror. 

Slowly, he slipped the mirror into his pocket.


	3. the forsaken

Seasons flowed together like the river winding behind the shrine. In the spring, Bokuto wanted Akaashi to prepare daytime meals, even if he fell asleep and snored loudly into his soup. In the summer, Bokuto wanted Akaashi to fan him. In the fall, he wanted Akaashi to roast chestnuts, and seemed bewildered when a building caught on fire. In the winter, he huddled by Akaashi’s bed in the early darkness, bemoaning the cold. 

Years passed. Or so Akaashi assumed. He never visited the human realm. Instead, he wrote sharply-worded scrolls, fending off territorial disputes. He attended feasts by Bokuto’s side, issuing apologizes in his stead. He plotted strategies and warred upon gods, and prodded Bokuto to provide support. He withstood Bokuto’s capricious and disastrous moods. He accumulated scars and gifts, and still served the evening meals. 

“What are you doing, Akaashi?” Bokuto knelt beside him, sliding his arm over Akaashi’s shoulder and towards his chest. Akaashi tugged at the thread, twisting the needle. Spring had dawned again, a gentle wind whispering through the trees. The hall doors spread open, rustling the shiny fabric strewn about the room.

“I’m making you a toy,” Akaashi said.

“Whoa, really? Thanks, Akaashi!” 

“You’re the one who asked me to do it.” Akaashi pinched the cloth together, rolling the little fabric ball in his hands. 

“Then I’ll tell you a story, as thanks. What do you want to hear?”

“I have no requests.” Akaashi considered his statement. “Though I have been curious how you choose your attendants.”

“That’s not really a story, Akaashi! I like stories better.” Bokuto burrowed his chin between Akaashi’s shoulder blades, muffled and anguished. His antlers brushed against his ear. Akaashi ignored him, slipping the needle through the cloth. Eventually, Bokuto recovered, leaning close to Akaashi.

“I don’t know, I just choose ‘em because they’re powerful. I steal them away from their homes and lives with a whim. I always choose right.” Bokuto curled his fingers on Akaashi’s sternum. “Is that an okay answer?”

“Better than I expected.” Akaashi had anticipated a flippant answer, like Bokuto chose them by a flip of a coin.

“It’s good that I got you helping me. You’re a smart guy, Akaashi.” 

The bell sang out a pure sound. Akaashi glanced up to see Washio bowing to the shrine. The incense smell drifted low across the room. 

“He always worships at this hour, huh.” Bokuto watched him with unblinking eyes.

“It’s better to be timely. Worship is an attendant’s main duty, after all.” Akaashi paused, scissors hovering over the thread. “Should I start?”

“You can’t even if you wanted to! I don’t want you to touch the purification water.” 

“Then will you tell me what it feels like?” 

“To be worshipped? That’s a hard question.” Bokuto watched Washio walk away. “I guess being loved a lot. All warm and tingly. Really good? Without it, I can’t live, so it’s nice.” 

Akaashi was the only attendant who never worshipped. Without the purification, he could not start the rites. It bothered him, from time to time, when all was peaceful. He would sit on the porch and watch the other attendants bow and clap their hands, unlined faces and closed eyes. He could tell Bokuto felt their prayers, too. It would be easier to raise him from a bad mood, or he would smile brighter if he was already energetic. But, frankly, Akaashi didn’t know how to start. With their heads bowed, he wondered what the other attendants were thinking.

“But I don’t need you to worship me. Just do what you always do, Akaashi.” Bokuto slid his hand further down, tracing along his abs. Bokuto breathed faster in his ear. Akaashi didn’t mind the touches. They felt nice, and Bokuto always tried to be gentle. But he disliked the way Bokuto sometimes seemed to be in pain, holding himself back. 

He never thought Bokuto would ever hold himself back on something he wanted. 

“Akaashi!” Someone was calling for him. He can hear the faint cry from the stone steps. Bokuto clutched him tighter on instinct. They sat in the shadows of the room. The warm needle perched between his fingers. The soft antlers rubbed against his head, and Bokuto’s warm breath spilled over his neck. Nobody watched them. 

“Akaashi! It’s time to start dinner!” 

Bokuto leaned forward, grabbing the ball. Akaashi released his hold, letting Bokuto bat the ball around the ground.

“Make sure it’s a good dinner,” Bokuto said, flicking the ball along the mat. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san.” He left the hall, the warm light slipping over him. Washio sat on a porch, looking at the shrine. Akaashi followed his gaze. He wondered how it would feel if he bowed his head, too. 

The small, hard mirror jostled against his chest when he walked away.  
  


* * *

  
They still had offerings, but they were waning and meager. The sacks full of food dwindled in size, the fullness replaced with a cruel leanness. 

“We-ell,” Shirofuku said, “We can hunt for ourselves, but that’s not the problem.” 

“You weren’t an owl, Akaashi,” Konoha said, elbow on the table. “But we are. And we depend on Bokuto’s powers to keep a human form.” 

“Less food means fewer prayers. Without their belief, Bokuto will not have the strength to sustain us,” Washio said.

Akaashi paced slowly away from the meeting, fingers flicking against his thigh in thought. He never felt hungry, so he could stop partaking in the meals. Bokuto’s sustenance primarily consisted of prayers, so the rest of the offerings could be distributed to the owls. He wandered around the shrine area, finding himself in front of the forbidden mail hall where Bokuto slept in the day.

“Worried, Akaashi?” Bokuto asked. He sat on top of the roof, feet kicked out over the slates. 

“I need to speak you about something, Bokuto-san.”

“I know already! Don’t make such a serious face.” Bokuto propped his chin on his hand. “I’m the first one to know if I get less worship. I feel it! So don’t look so serious.”

“This is my natural face, Bokuto-san.”

“You know what I mean.” 

“Bokuto-san,” he started, and stopped. He twisted his fingers in front of him. Still, his mind ran through the best phrasing for his question. But even the few seconds raised Bokuto’s curiosity, because he descended in a fluttering of wings.

“Just ask, Akaashi.” 

“You said being worshipped made you feel loved.”

“That’s right.”

“Then, not being worshipped…” He hesitated.

“Akaashi, are you actually worried about me?” Bokuto gaped, ridiculous mouth wide open. Akaashi sighed, annoyed. Despite his efforts, he ended up with the worst results. 

“It’s a passing concern,” he said firmly. “It’s my duty to care.”

“Really?” Bokuto grinned. Akaashi looked away. Love, unloved. He only investigated because it would be a bother if Bokuto fell to an even lower mood. He could send the other owls to pander to Bokuto’s whims, praising him and hooting in his vicinity, if he did indeed feel unloved. But whether Bokuto felt loved or unloved, Akaashi would only act in his personal best interests. He told himself this, but reason trembled under Bokuto’s sharp gaze.

“I don’t feel worse for it,” Bokuto said. “It’s normal. I’m not worried about myself at all.”

Akaashi placed a hand on his hip and exhaled. He hadn’t realized he already had become so devoted to Bokuto. Then again, centuries must have already passed. The evergreen trees would not change, nor the mountains lurking behind them, but the time spent listening to his shouts had build up inside him. Somehow, between the apologies and scolding, he had grown close to Bokuto.

“Must be hard for you, huh,” Bokuto said, clapping him on the shoulder. Akaashi mentally took back the words he never said. 

“It’s trying times for all of us.”

“Well, releasing a retainer isn’t so bad. They’ll enter the cycle.” 

“Cycle?”

“You know, the cycle. It’s like disrupting stillness and motion.”

“I see. Thank you for informing me, Bokuto-san. I will see you in the morning.” Akaashi turned to walk away, yanked back by Bokuto’s firm grasp on his collar.

“Come on, Akaashi! Let me explain! Look.” Bokuto bent down. Akaashi reluctantly followed suit, knees together. Bokuto sketched out a circle in the dirt.

“Listen, when owls die, they enter into a different state and that’s different from humans. But since they’re my attendants, their souls are now housed in human vessels. It relies on my power for now, but I can bind their soul to their human form forever when I release them so they’ll be like normal humans. If I’m strong enough when I release them, they’ll enter a cycle where they’ll be born again and again and again until they reach enlightenment. And it’s a good place, Akaashi. I know this.” Bokuto grinned. “They’ll be happy. I mean, that’s not the point of enlightenment! But they will be, and that’s important to me.” 

“And what will happen to me?” Akaashi stared down at the rough circle.

“Well, you weren’t an owl in the first place.” Bokuto drew an owl in the dirt. “It’s rough, but even if they’re gone, you can stay with me. I don’t need to sustain your human form.”

“I see.” Akaashi bit back his true question. Asking Bokuto what would happen if he chose to leave the shrine would only bring trouble. He wondered if he had a place in the circle.

“But there’s a danger, too. See, here’s the path to enlightenment. That’s where you want to go.”

“I followed as much, Bokuto-san.”

“But, see, if you commit a grave sin, you get caught into a different cycle. I call it a cursed cycle, because you go for a little while, and then you go into the void.” Bokuto drew a half-circle, which faded off into a straight line. “You’re no longer part of the universe.”

“They can’t redeem themselves?”

“Those souls usually deteriorate too fast. That’s why it’s called a grave sin! But don’t worry about the demon cats. They’ll go on the regular cycle,” Bokuto said, drawing a cat. “They’re good people.”

“Their offerings are likely shrinking, as well,” Akaashi said. It had been a long while since they had visited other gods. Even the letters came infrequently. 

“Geez, we’re lucky that I’m the only god around here, especially away from those crow gods. Times like these, the gods start getting territorial. We’ll kill and eat each other if we gotta.”

“Eat?” Akaashi reflectively grimaced. 

“A god’s body has a lot of power, Akaashi. Like how Kuroo says his former second tail created the land. Though he’s a liar. Anyway, you eat a god, you get power. But killing a god is a grave sin, Akaashi, so don’t do that.” 

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I mean it!”

“As do I.” Akaashi thoughtfully drew a circle. “Wouldn’t eating a god be a grave sin?”

“Taking what a god has forsaken is not a sin.” Bokuto stood up, wiping his dirty finger on his jacket. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about that for a long while. I can support some little owls, no problem.”

“Are you sure you’re not bluffing?”

“Believe in me a little, Akaashi!” 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, still staring at the circles. “If I were to enter the cursed cycle, nothing would save me.” 

The scars from Kuroo’s attack still covered his forearms, thick and dull. That night, without his mask, he wondered what Kuroo had seen. Bokuto must have been able to see it, as well, since he hadn’t questioned Kuroo. He wondered what sins only gods could see on his face. 

A glimpse of the burnt village flew into his mind. He had always assumed Bokuto had destroyed the village, but he simply had no memories. His own hands might have done the task. The stain of blood on wood haunted him.

“A god can save you,” Bokuto said. “If you get lost, I’ll find you and bring you back.” 

Akaashi felt a hand on top of his head. If he looked up, he wondered if he would see the calm Bokuto, grinning smug and assured. Bokuto’s hand trailed down the back of his neck, ghosting around his spine. He closed his eyes. The sweet night air had already ripened. The rough calluses on Bokuto’s fingers traced the nape of his neck, gentle along the bristles. Quiet and on his knees, he could pretend this was worship. But he opened his eyes, and knew he was only paying penance for an unknown crime.  
  


* * *

  
Bokuto decided that he wanted Akaashi to accompany him into a village for his business.

“It’s about time he goes to the human realm,” Bokuto said, sloppily dressed as always. Akaashi straightened out the cloth methodically. He had no great desire to visit the human realm, or attend to Bokuto’s business. Bokuto rarely conducted godly business in the daytime, and he worried Bokuto would fall asleep and trap them in the realm. Still, Bokuto had been firm on the matter. With a subtle grimace, Akaashi acquiesced. 

“Where’s your spirit of adventure? It’ll be fun.” Bokuto shoved the branches out of the way. Akaashi had not entered the woods since the night he came to the shrine. In the daytime, the trees had a slender, gentle slimness. The few owls he spotted in the trees nestled in the crooks. 

In his memories, the dirt pathway had warped into a nightmarish haunt. But the reality was almost gentle in comparison. He flicked a leaf in his way. 

“What sort of business are you attending?” he asked. 

“None for today. Besides, I work better at night. Don’t you know, Akaashi?” Bokuto’s laugh grated his nerves. His nocturnal habits were the reason he was reluctant to accompany him. 

“Do you destroy things?” 

“Sometimes. I’ve killed and destroyed. I’m not a gentle god, Akaashi.” Bokuto held a branch away for him, grinning. “But you wouldn’t like me if I was, right?”

The trees had melded into walls. The light broke through the entrance, and they emerged between buildings on a busy road. Akaashi had never seen a likewise spectacle. People trod through the streets, adorned in simple clothing. Their sandals clattered against the dirt, creating a cacophony. A faint whiff of seawater rolled over the buildings, and a wooden bridge curved over a glittering river. The city had nothing of the ornate decorations of the shrine, but it had size. The expansive buildings towered over them, unfolding far into the horizon, stout and wide. Someone rode a horse, another pulled a wagon, others shuffled with heavy bags on their backs. 

There was nothing of the quiet swaying in the trees clustered around the shrine. The sun beat down heavily on him. His mouth was dry. 

“What should we do first? Hey, Akaashi, let’s buy something. Oops, I forgot to bring my moneybag. But you have money, right, Akaashi? Akaashi?” Bokuto turned towards him. Akaashi wedged against a wall, hand over his mouth. He inhaled through the cracks of his fingers. 

“Can they see us?” he finally asked. 

“More or less. They’ll see two humans, and then they’ll forget us. Humans have such interesting minds sometimes.” Bokuto glanced over the crowd. “Hey, should I buy a sword? Or maybe a knife. Which would make me look cooler, Akaashi?”

“Both are impressive, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi inhaled again, dangling his hand by his side. The sights were overwhelming, but an unpleasant sensation also overtook him. His body felt heavier. He could feel sweat trickling from his neck. 

Bokuto grabbed his hand, and the solidity of his movement startled him. 

“Then let’s look at everything, Akaashi,” he said, and dragged him through the crowd. 

Everything turned out to be truer than Akaashi would have liked. He had mostly forgotten the new sensations in the wake of purchasing a meal for Bokuto, examining swords, glancing through swaths of fabrics, watching a game of shogi, and bribing him to return a toy he had stolen from some children. He pushed Bokuto away from shouting merchants and rushed him past the theater. Exhausted, he took safety beneath some eaves, huddling in what little shade it afforded. Bokuto still was energetic, but obediently sat beside him. He glanced at Akaashi restlessly, but Akaashi refused to return his look.

A child ran past them, carrying a koto. Akaashi watched her idly.

“Do you like humans, Akaashi?” Bokuto flicked at the dirt. 

“I don’t dislike them.”

“Would you like to live like this?”

“Are you abandoning me, Bokuto-san?”

“I’m not, I’m not! It’s just a question.”

“I will live as I must.” 

“That’s not an answer.” Bokuto sulked into his knees. “I’m not forcing you to do anything, Akaashi. But you should get used to having a physical body in the human realm. You get to do a lot of cool things when you’re a human. Like jumping.” 

“Remarkable, Bokuto-san.”

“You can run and play and think. You can hit things. You can cry and shout and scream. You can love, too. In the end, when everything else is gone, only love remains.” Bokuto glanced at him, somber. “I think you’d like living in the human realm.”

It wasn’t quite a dramatic Bokuto mood. He was better at dealing with those. He could purchase some shiny trinket and Bokuto would eventually grow distracted enough to forget his melancholy. But Bokuto’s rough voice had a dragging undertone, serious and deep. His eyes were heavy, mouth hidden by the crook of his elbow, unscarred arm resting on his knees. Bokuto was trying to tell him something, and he disliked how he couldn’t interpret his words.

“There’re a lot of stories about humans, too. Some are even cool hero stories.” Bokuto watched a man hasten down the street. “Today was just a droplet, Akaashi. You could have an ocean.” 

“That’s fairly impractical.” 

“Hey, Akaashi, you know how I never help make dinner?”

“I remember.” 

“It’s because I can only eat food prepared by another. It’s kinda the same with our owls, too. They could hunt for food, but food given to them tastes better. But isn’t that sad?” Bokuto held up a finger. “It’s one-sided, isn’t it? The only things that are good for you are things others have given you. But when you’re a human, you give and take and give and take and give and take.”

“All food tastes the same to me,” Akaashi said. 

“That’s okay for now. But once you’ve tasted really delicious food, you can never go back.”

Bokuto stopped. His head swiveled abruptly, eyes focused on something down the street. Akaashi followed his gaze to a woman hobbling down the street. Something lurked on her back, a mottled beast the color of an aching bruise. Small monstrous claws clutched at the woman’s neck, carried along with her. Though the bustling of the crowd should have covered any sound, he thought he could hear an indistinct chattering whisper, overlapping with itself. 

The woman slumped closer. Her feet dragged on the ground. The crowd did not notice, but they parted slightly away from her. The colors swam across the creature, a florid purple sinking into a rotting green. She stumbled past them. An eyeball appeared on its back, twisting until it stared directly at Akaashi. 

Something called to him from far away.

A buffet of wind knocked him to his feet, and an unearthly screech filled his ears. He whipped his head to where Bokuto was sitting, and stared at where Bokuto now stood beside the woman. The creature was still, and then slid into pieces where talon marks had struck it. The monster disappeared, leaving no evidence behind. The woman stumbled, disoriented, but a new light had returned to her eyes. 

Bokuto had left a sandal behind. Akaashi picked it up, and rubbing his ears, wandered to his side. 

“That ruined my good mood,” Bokuto said, staring at the back of the woman. He shook his hand painfully, which throbbed with the same bruise color. It slowly ebbed away, and he curled his hand protectively over his wrist, still in pain. Akaashi recognized it now. The memory surfaced from long ago, when Bokuto had washed it away.

“What was it?” 

“Something bad. Did you see me striking it down, Akaashi? It was cool, right?” Bokuto placed his fists on his hips, striking an admirable pose. Akaashi bent down to force his foot back into the sandal. 

“Impressive, Bokuto-san.”

“That was just a small one, though. The big ones can destroy a city.” 

“And what are they?” Akaashi asked patiently.

“Huh? I don’t know what they’re called. Blight? Malaise? They’re just bad things that come in the world from resentment and hate. And then they’ll cause it, too. Sometimes they attach to people, and sometimes they take different forms. Well, it’s not like they have souls. Over time, without food, they’ll starve and disappear into the void.” Bokuto stared down the street. “But in that time, a lot of people can get hurt.”

“So this is what you do on your visits.”

“Not always. But sometimes. I’m bored already, let’s go home. Let me sleep in your lap, Akaashi.” 

“Don’t you want to pay a visit to your shrine here?” He assumed a physical shrine existed. He tried to look for a taller tower in the mass of buildings. 

“They don’t have one here anymore.” Bokuto disappeared down an alley. “Keep up, Akaashi!”

The alleyway appeared to lead to another street, but the more steps Akaashi took, the less obvious it seemed. The light faded away, and he could hear soft owl noises from the trees beside him. Bokuto lead the way, back straight. 

“It seems difficult to get lost here,” Akaashi said. “Doesn’t the path lead straight back to your shrine?”

“It’s easier to tie a soul to a place than a time. You don’t want to get swept up for centuries. It’s just like that saying, Akaashi. A river never steps on the same person twice.”

“And what sort of river is that, Bokuto-san.”

They emerged back into the shrine. The trees swayed above them, and Akaashi felt his body grow lighter. Saru waved at them from the distance. Akaashi thought Bokuto had been trying to tell him something that day. He had certainly learned a lot. 

But the only impression left upon him was the brief moment when he turned away from the child, and saw Bokuto looking at him, wistful expression on his face.  
  


* * *

  
Years passed. Bokuto left the shrine less and less, until he spent most days in the hall, where he insisted on using Akaashi’s lap as a pillow. Akaashi’s responsibilities dwindled. He listened to the other attendants play music outside, Bokuto vague in his lap.

“I want a big feast tonight, Akaashi. Tell someone to take money and buy food from the town.” Bokuto rose up on his elbow. “It’ll be a great party.”

“Are you feeling better, Bokuto-san?”

“I’m feeling worse. That’s why I have to act quickly. Is that messenger still here?” 

The demon cats sent their messages by cats, as Bokuto sent his messages by owls. The messenger cat flicked its tail, leaping down the steps. The scroll sprawled across the floor, inked characters peeking through. Akaashi could read it from where he sat, though Bokuto had given no indication that he wanted to show it to him or hide it from him.

A message from Kuroo. “I’ll go on ahead.”

“I’ll ask Washio to fetch the food,” Akaashi said. 

“No, not Washio. Tell Konoha to go. I want yellowfish teriyaki.” Bokuto closed his eyes, draping across the floor. “I need to rest for tonight, Akaashi. Go play with the others.”

“You mean go fulfill the duties you’ve neglected.” But his words had no bite. Bokuto hadn’t said much since he read the scroll and flung it across the floor. He was not sad in the way Akaashi knew sadness. He was sad in an old way. It was the end of a summer, when the leaves had not yet become charming in amber colors, but remained brittle and shattered. 

He allowed his hand to linger on Bokuto’s back. Then, he rose and padded across the room, glancing back before he pulled shut the doors. 

In the big room, slumped on the floor, Bokuto looked small and alone.

They had a bigger feast, bigger than he’d seen for years. They drank and ate and cheered, and Akaashi watched them. 

“Wasn’t Kuroo such a pain?” Bokuto pulled out a fish bone. “I won almost all the battles we fought, though.”

“Almost all.”

“It was enough! It was clear that I was so much stronger than he was. That damn demon cat. I hated that smug look on his face. And that stupid grin. And those cats could always take our attacks for far too long. They were mean and stubborn, Akaashi.” Bokuto flicked the fish bone across the table, mouth tugged down into an almost scowl. “I hated them.”

“I know, Bokuto-san.”

“I really, really hated them.”

“I know.”

He let Bokuto rest on his shoulder for the rest of the night. The irritation he usually felt at Kuroo’s antics had slowed to a throb. They had fought him and his followers many times. Kenma, in particular, had always been annoyingly smart and wily. He could remember each of them distinctly.

He found himself clutching onto a cup to fill the emptiness in his hands.

The night waned, and the attendants began to take their leave. Bokuto pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Wait, Washio, I want to talk to you. Meet me in front of my main hall.” 

Akaashi did not think much of it. He collected the dishes from the table after the rest had left. Saru and Konoha were talking on the dirt pathway, their silhouettes illuminated by the moon. 

“Washio first, huh?” 

“He probably wants to take care of the younger ones longer.”

“Stupid. It’s only now that he’s considerate.”

“Who do you think will be next?”

“I don’t know. Akaashi’s probably last, though.”

“Always the favorite, isn’t he? Well, I feel good about that. He can take care of Bokuto on his own.”

Their voices faded in the distance. Akaashi stood in the doorway, hesitant about calling to them. He heard a fluttering sound from the main hall, but when he looked, only the darkness remained. 

That night, for the first time since his arrival, he dreamed. 

He walked. Golden eyes followed him. He ran. The eyes watched him. He broke through the streets. An owl ate through a reddish carcass, blood mottling its feathers. A mist crawled around his feet. An egg rolled in the fire, disintegrating into ashes. An owl dangled from the tree, upside down and holding on by one talon. Hundreds of eyes watched him from the darkness. He ran. Half-eaten parts littered the dirt. Something screeched. They watched him. He ran. He could hear nailing to a door, but he could only see eyes. He could hear a soft worship, but he could only see eyes. He could hear whispers of harbinger, evil, death, prosperity, gold, fortune. The eyes followed him.

When he turned, he saw a small black cat. The cat stared at him, flicking his tail, and then ran towards a light. He chased it, but the cat ran too fast. He slowed, turning again.

Before him, he saw an injured owl. The wound was severe, deep, and fatal. The owl would not have much longer to live, clacking weakly at the intruder and fluttering against the ground. He watched as child hands reached forward, petting the owl on the head clumsily. The owl tried to bite the hand, but too much blood had sunken into the greedy dirt. And with each stroke, the owl was changing. He was becoming human, wound disappearing into simple cloth. Akaashi recognized the intensity of the eyes. The child held out his small hands, palms open. Washio slowly picked up the child. 

“You can’t look, Akaashi.”

He was seeing this through the child’s eyes. The child had jolting steps, running and jumping up the steps of the familiar shrine that had a youth he’d never seen before. The paint was new and the owl etchings were only partially chiseled. The child pointed to the altar. Washio smiled down at him, the sun showering on his back.

“Akaashi, look away.”

He tore his gaze from the bright visage, staring back into the darkness. He stumbled forward, knocking into sharp pieces of wood. They scratched at him. He was at the familiar burnt village. This time, he stood at a distance and his eyes could see everything. He could see every detail of the broken bodies and into their pasts. A blacksmith who enjoyed fishing. A child who loved swords and sweets. A farmer with a broken knee and family. He could see everything. His vision was so clear. He could see the thinning frays of the universe. Something caught his attention, standing in the middle of the village. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to focus. 

“Akaashi!” 

He was thrust away from the sight. Bokuto pinned down his shoulders, but he flickered in and out. Sometimes he had a human face, sometimes an owl face. His body morphed from human to beast, sometimes small, sometimes enormous enough to fill a city. 

“Aka-a-ashi,” Bokuto growled, “You can’t look into my dreams.”

Akaashi woke up.

The night sweat was cooling on his neck. He sat up on his bed. The sound of something wet hit his blanket. Reaching up, he felt the dampness around his eyes. When he closed his eyes and inhaled until his lungs burned, another tear cascaded down. He fell back onto his pillow, scarred arm covering his face. He did not feel sadness in the way he knew sadness. He felt sadness like a force inside him, overtaking his entire being. He had no reason to cry, but he cried. 

The next morning, the attendants went about their duties, chattering kindly as usual. They did not mention Washio’s absence.  
  


* * *

  
“Konoha, come help.” 

“Yes, yes. Does he still not allow you to touch the purification water? Man, what an annoying guy.” Konoha chatted amicably, bending down to pool the water into the jug’s mouth. 

“I’m sure Bokuto-san has his reasons.” Akaashi tugged his mouth into a wry smile. “Even if they’re not good reasons.”

“It just seems stupid, you know. He brings us all to worship him, and then bans you from doing that. Annoying. Ah, but some gods have a lot more rules than him. Like worship twice a day or something like that. We only have the one, to never desecrate him.”

The one rule. Akaashi’s fingers twitched, counting out the five rules he’d been given. No mirrors. Wear a mask around guests. Never enter the hall. Never touch the purification water. Never desecrate him. He always suspected the other attendants weren’t restricted by the same rules. 

“Saru was always good at reminding me that whenever I got too mad at Bokuto. But, well, it’s been a while since he left.” Konoha spoke a little too casually, smiling too widely to be natural. 

“It’s cruel of him to send us off without much warning.” 

“I guess. He’s a troublesome guy. It’s selfish of me, but I’m glad you’re still here, Akaashi. I’d worry about that guy if he was on his own. He’s been getting sicker and sicker lately.” Konoha tipped the jug back, water sloshing down the sides. “I think we’re going to have a feast tonight. I have a feeling it’s going to be my favorite food.”

Akaashi already knew. Komi and Shirofuku had both gone to prepare the meal. Both Bokuto’s silence and loudness made it difficult to give proper comfort, though the other attendants appeared to like the arrangement. But it would fall on Akaashi’s responsibilities to lead them and guide them. Konoha still wore a sly smile, like he had made a clever joke, but the overt casualness had not left his hardened shoulders. 

“Tonight,” Akaashi said, “I might sleep earlier and dream something good.”

“Bokuto will get angry with you.” 

“Let him.”

“Well, if you can withstand that dumb owl’s screeching.” Konoha smiled a little more widely. “Then I would be honored, Akaashi.”

That night, he dreamed. 

He tumbled through the hooting and the feathers. He could feel them watching him from the darkness. But he knew what he wanted to see. His steps were steady and unfaltering.

Glimpses of the night flew over his head. He could see Konoha kneeling in front of him. The blurry background looked unfamiliar, the trees slender and grass shimmering in the wind. A pond glowed beside some rocks. Konoha said something, laughed, nodded, and looked down again. Hands, not his hands, reached out to his face and lifted it up. Konoha’s eyes glowed in a bright clean light, casting his form into shadow. The light was good and small. He could feel its smallness from his hands and its goodness from his heart. The light drifted away, shaping into the misty form of an owl, hovering over the body. 

A summer day. The hazy heat wrapped around him. Below, through the thicket of leaves, he could see Konoha and Komi arguing. They played rock-paper-scissors, and Konoha lost. Konoha now climbed the tree, approaching him with every branch. He was laughing and saying something, shaking his head with well-known exasperation. Akaashi could see familiar child hands reach down, slowly, and grasp Konoha’s fingers. 

Akaashi turned away, heart squeezing in his chest. He saw a faint light, the exit from the dreams. But he also saw the burnt village appearing in front of him, drifting upwards from the mist. 

It listed in the darkness, hard edges streaming into a softer mist. He knew he shouldn’t approach, having already intruded into Bokuto’s dreams, but his feet were drawn there. He knew this village. He knew this place. He knew this dream. And in this dream, he could see a little bit through Bokuto’s eyes, which could see everything. He could surely see and remember Akaashi in this memory.

Akaashi tried to ignore the village below him, throbbing with ghostly afterimages. He swiveled his head towards the figure standing in the middle of the carnage. Something was gathering. He tried to see. He could almost see. He would see. 

“Don’t look,” Bokuto said. “Please don’t look.”

Akaashi woke up in the darkness.  
  


* * *

  
They had all gone.

Akaashi sat on the porch. Autumn had stayed too long. A heavy dryness meandered through the trees, unending and unrelenting. Another few years had trickled down. The memory of the other attendants, laughing and talking, haunted him. Sometimes he suspected the crackling of the pines was someone walking through the woods, and he found himself turning, expectant. Only the silence greeted him.

The day turned into night. His feet prickled when he stood. Another uneventful day had passed. He padded to his bed, slipping under the blankets. He wondered how many more eternities he would endure. 

He woke up to a heavy weight on top of him. The drowsiness muddled his mind, tiredness dragging on his limbs. He could smell incense and wet feathers. 

“This is okay, right, Akaashi.” Bokuto’s gruff whisper faded into the darkness. “Tell me, Akaashi.” 

“Bokuto-san—” His voice cracked in his sleepy state. 

“There’s nobody else here.” A desperate keen slipped into Bokuto’s voice. “Just a little bit—if it’s just a little bit—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, “What do you need?” He felt Bokuto tighten above him. That had always been the question. He lifted his hands, sliding them down Bokuto’s back. He could feel the rise and fall of his breath. 

“Gods have one rule,” Bokuto said. “We can’t fall in love. It will always bring our downfall.” He confessed in a voice of river gravel and soot, settling into Akaashi’s stomach. Rules, rules. So many rules. He didn’t understand them, the transient figments, but he could understand the quiet ache in his bones. Bokuto could surely feel the loneliness in the unused chopsticks and silent bell. 

“I miss them, too,” he said. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto breathed, “I miss them, but I didn’t mean—it’s you, Akaashi—just a little bit—just a little—” 

Bokuto kissed him clumsily. He curled up his fists against Akaashi’s front. This was more like Bokuto, Akaashi was thinking, and he could feel himself thinking so distantly, away from the warm sensation against his mouth. Akaashi kissed him more hesitantly, more tenderly, closing his eyes. He could feel Bokuto shaking above him, desperate for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. He could smell the fragrant incense, and feel his searing mouth. He tried to be kind with his kiss, constraining his own want. 

It was Bokuto who broke away first, clutching onto Akaashi and hitting his forehead against Akaashi’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, Akaashi,” he whispered. “It’s so cold.” 

Akaashi breathed heavily. He felt cold, too, and then he realized he was physically cold. Snow pattered down the roof, delicate frost stretched across the mats, and the vapor from his breath formed aimless clouds. The long autumn had ended. Even though he had seen Bokuto’s feats many times, they still retained an untouchable magical quality. He was aware of the distance between them, even when Bokuto trembled over him. Despite his vulnerabilities, Bokuto could change the world on his whim.

Love was barely a question. Bokuto loved all, and in their disappearances, he simply transferred those feelings on Akaashi. But even if Akaashi knew this logically, something ached inside him. He wanted to be flattered. He wanted to covet the love. He wanted to be chosen by Bokuto. He, too, had selfish whims, especially with Bokuto in front of him, begging for his adoration.

But the others had left Bokuto in his care. 

“I don’t want to be your downfall, Bokuto-san,” he said. A harsh pang rattled in his chest, and then disappeared into the cold. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whispered, “Forgive me.”  
  


* * *

  
The snow blanketed the eaves of the empty buildings, masking the dying world in white. Clumps of powder gathered on the tree branches. The swell of the river had frozen over. For the third day without Bokuto, Akaashi chipped away at the ice. His nose and ears burned from the chill. Only the crunch of his shoes broke the muffling silence. 

He missed the company. He missed Bokuto, who would fall into a snowdrift and demand they play snow games with him. Forcibly separated into two teams, they’d engage in senseless snow battles until Bokuto won. Sometimes he would pull his hands apart, dangling a line of ice crystals, and insist on giving them to Akaashi. A useless gift. 

Nothing had gone wrong recently. Bokuto likely wasn’t sulking, but was resting instead. Even Akaashi could tell the belief in him had waned to a small trickle. He wondered if his own worship would strengthen Bokuto. 

The idle thought turned into idle curiosity. He approached the stone basin with the purification water, still unfrozen in the chill. His reflection distorted in the gentle waves. Practically, he knew the method to purify and pray. But the reality was that his joints felt frigid. He didn’t know if he could devote himself so completely in a moment. He wasn’t Bokuto, who had clutched onto him in the night. He had never bowed his head to him. 

He dipped his fingertips into the water, thoughts still cloudy with the night of Bokuto’s soft confession.

A splitting pain struck his hand, and he yanked his hand back out, water and blood splattering into the snow. He grabbed his wrist, teeth gritted. His skin ripped up, frayed edges searing across his arm, blood spurting from his fingers. His hand shook and he sank to his knees. Slowly, his fingers repaired themselves, skin knitting together like strands. Only the hot blood sinking into the snow left any evidence behind. 

The purification water had burned him. 

When he struggled to sit up, he saw no inky blots of blood in the water. He could almost tell himself he imagined it, but the pain throbbed in his arm. The faint visage of the village burned in the back of his eyelids. He could see the snarl on Kuroo’s face, the mingled surprise and hatred. The small fragments of Bokuto’s dreams floated to his mind. The emptiness of the land appeared before him. Slowly, he withdrew his stolen mirror from his pocket. Dried blood still covered the face. 

Methodically, he dipped the mirror into the water. Even in a moment, the blood peeled off and disappeared in the water, leaving a clean mirror face behind. He pulled up the mirror, ignoring the stinging droplets dissolving into his wrist. 

For the first time, he looked at himself. 

He dropped the mirror to the ground. It cracked in the middle, splintering into pieces. He inhaled loudly, gaze drawn to the silent bell. Then, he walked. Even in the snow, he knew the familiar pathway beneath his feet. He passed the open doors of the oratory to the forbidden building. The third rule had been to never enter the main hall. 

He pushed open the doors. 

He knew he was transgressing. Everything of his being felt the wrongness, the outside silence world different from the somber quiet in the doors. The chilly day broke into a warm temperature, a heat that wrapped comfortably around his limbs. A fine gray mist dulled his senses. The walls had been replaced by distant mountains, where clouds touched open the ragged edges. Elegant white and gold twisted trees held up statues of owls, their stone eyes following him when he walked further into the hall, stepping through the silver grass. He had seen this place once in a dream. He knew the glowing pond would be behind twin trees. 

Bokuto was bathing inside, eyes shut and clothes discarded behind him. Half his face and chest reflected a shifting bruise, ugly and wrong. 

“Is this what I’ve done to you?”

Bokuto snorted, not opening his eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Akaashi. You’ve given me the last happy centuries of my life, that’s what you’ve done to me. This is just what happens when I’m too weak. Annoying, it’s annoying, but it’s nothing serious.” 

Akaashi knelt by the pond. The strange and warm mist licked at his heels. The entire beautiful land felt like it was burning him alive, a slow boil from his insides. 

“Did I kill those people in the village?” he murmured.

“No, Akaashi. You’re being more of an idiot. It’s not like you, you know?” Bokuto grimaced, finally opening his eyes. “I told you, blight comes from hate. You just emerged from the hatred. Because I was there, I guess you resonated with me and took a human form. That’s all.”

“Then I’m only blight.” Akaashi looked at his hands. “I’m not really Akaashi Keiji.”

“You weren’t, but now you are. With me around, you could keep the human form. Thank me more, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, splashing the water towards him. It splattered harmlessly into the grass. 

“I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t sound like a thank you.” 

“So you expect me to thank you for letting me slowly kill you.” Akaashi breathed shallowly. “No wonder Kuroo wanted to kill me.”

“Kuroo this, Kuroo that. He was a worrywart. I’m clearly strong enough to support you, right?” Bokuto scrubbed at the bruise on his arm. Akaashi could tell it was persistent and clinging. He wondered if all the times he’d touched Bokuto had caused pain. Irritated. He felt irritated, prickling all over. Even if Bokuto had been strong enough to keep him in the earlier days, he should have released Akaashi a long time ago. Without prayers, Bokuto would have been weak. With Akaashi by his side, Bokuto was dying. 

He knew all this without a word, like he had known all along inside his bruising heart.

“You should have told me.” 

“Akaashi, I like you because you’re smart, but you’re really smart. You’d just say things like how I should let you go. But I don’t want to. I’m not going to apologize for that. Except I am, because I do feel bad about it, Akaashi, I shouldn’t have lied. But I’m not going to apologize!” 

“You’re not making sense,” Akaashi said. 

“I am! I’m sorry but I’m not but I am.”

“Bokuto-san, I’m clearly absorbing too much of your strength. Please consider releasing me.” 

“It looks worse than it actually is. I just have to purify myself during the day.” Bokuto caught his hand. “Besides, if I release you, you’ll just disappear into nothingness and the void. It would take tremendous power to bind blight to a vessel and enter a reincarnation cycle. Power I’m not sure I ever had. Come, Akaashi. Stay with me.”

“I only ask that you take care of yourself, Bokuto-san.” He didn’t want to disappear. But his fingertips, brushing against Bokuto’s hands, spread poison to his body. He could almost see the bruised threads weave into his veins, joining the mass permeating on Bokuto’s chest. 

A blight’s fate was to starve and die. That would be better than actually hurting anyone. He knew this, but his heart wouldn’t respond to his mind.

He knew he was hurting him. He had never really existed, so he should disappear back into nothingness. But a wretched cold grasp had taken over his heart, clashing against the warm afternoon memories of Bokuto lying in his lap, telling him an idle story. He didn’t know how many centuries had passed by Bokuto’s side, advising him to the best logical move. He didn’t know how long it had been since he first loved him. 

“Have I served you well, Bokuto-san?” he asked quietly.

“Well, yeah. You’re the best.” Bokuto blinked stupidly.

“Then you should trust me. Haven’t you already released your other attendants?”

“That’s different, and you know it! I needed to tie their human forms when I was still strong enough to do it. I didn’t release them to save myself strength.” Bokuto had that stubborn line along his chin. Akaashi had seen that look many times before, but he could always talk him down. His hands twisted in his lap.

“Your strength will continue to wane,” he said. “In time, you won’t be able to maintain my form, either. I don’t enjoy seeing you in pain.”

He could feel himself rotting from the inside, dead sloughs of skin. He couldn’t taste food and healed too fast, proof of his nothingness. His existence was a parasite, the same as the beast on the woman’s back. He knew all this, but Bokuto looked at him with burning adoration, bright eyes like smoldering gold.

“I know, Akaashi. But stay with me, just a little bit more.” Bokuto grabbed his hand, grip tight over his fingers. “I’ll give you everything I got, so please, Akaashi. Stay with me.”

The droplets of purified water slipped down Akaashi’s wrist, searing away the skin. He could see his muscles, twitching in fine strands, and then the blood pooled down the open wound. 

“I’ve broken your rules, Bokuto-san,” he told the grass. “You should expel me.”

“Akaashi, I know I’ve lied to you. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble. I might even be a little bit annoying sometimes. But even though I’m all that, could you love me?” 

Akaashi rose from the ground, withdrawing his hand from Bokuto’s grasp. He had control. He might have been a monster, but he still had his mind for now. With the right words, he could convince Bokuto to do anything. Power, fortune, fame. He could convince Bokuto to devote the rest of his life to him.

Which was why he walked away, saying nothing. 

The door appeared before him, not framed by any wall. He wasn’t surprised when he opened the door to the outside world. The snow still fell in flurries, wind picking up and drenching his sleeves and hair. He had always been a lie. He shouldn’t have been afraid of the nothingness bearing down before him. Really, he should have been angry that he’d ever learned what it was like to be loved. 

He found himself wandering to where they’d taken their dinners together. It was dark and empty, the certain gloom that plagued happy places in the silence. Even in the dim light, he found his way to his seat. The empty table spread out before him. He could almost imagine the loudness, surrounded by other attendants, each vying with their elbows for their portion of the meal. Here, someone would break out laughing. Another would point with their chopsticks, crass and joyful. Then, Bokuto would lean forward into his space, eyes half-lidded and grin overtaking his face. 

Now, he sat alone at the table. 

He drew his hands over his face.  
  


* * *

  
He must have been dreaming. 

The dining hall glowed with radiance, but no candles had been lit. The smell of meat wafted towards him, smoke gently dispersing in the air. A full meal had been spread out before him, and he was afraid, for one frigid moment, that this was his farewell feast. But he could not see any of his favorite foods. It was mostly meat, cut carefully and spread out over the dishes. 

“Here, Akaashi, eat up.” Bokuto sat opposite of him, dressed crisply in his ornamental robes. He looked better than he had for ages, like he was healthy again. 

“What’s this?” He rubbed his eyes, but the heavy sleepiness still plagued him.

“It’s a dream, and my thanks to you for all your years.” Bokuto grinned, sly and wily. “You’ll like it, I promise. Since I made it, I can’t eat it, though.”

“Thank you,” Akaashi said slowly. Bokuto never looked so mischievous unless he had done something Akaashi wouldn’t like. But he felt tired, and the meal still smelled good. He murmured polite thanks, and chewed on the meat. 

He almost choked at the taste. For the first time in his life, the taste wasn’t dull and restrained. It was succulent and juicy, lean but not stringy. His mouth filled with flavor. He took another bite, barely letting the texture rest in his mouth. Then he took another bite. A hunger he’d never noticed had appeared inside him, gaping like a hole in his stomach. The meat was tough, but delicious.

“Akaashi, sometimes you look kinda mad when you’re happy,” Bokuto said, laughing. “Though I’m more used to your annoyed look. Hey, wait, does that mean you’re always annoyed at me?” 

Akaashi didn’t have time to talk. He was baffled by the way he needed to eat, devouring one plate and moving to the next. The dream haze only made the meat more delicious, the meat juices slipping down his chopsticks. He chewed through the raw red, filling his cheeks with food. 

“I liked the way you looked impressed when I did good things. I didn’t do it for you, of course! But you know, I would have. You should have asked me for more things, Akaashi. I would have done anything for you.” Bokuto looked more tired now, a little sunken. “Or maybe that’s why you didn’t? You’re too smart, Akaashi. I don’t worry about it, though.”

He didn’t know how he had gone through so many years without tasting food. The sweet tingled on his tongue. His mouth felt heavy and delighted, chopsticks scraping over the burnt chunks. It was like he had been floating through the world, but now he had found a connection to the ground. He ate more, only stopping to swallow down clean water.

“Hey, Akaashi.” Bokuto slumped over the table, bags under his eyes. “All gods must die. But gods take a long time to die. I made reincarnation sound like a great thing, but it’s more complicated than that, you know. You don’t get to keep your memories. You just do your best to save your soul. And now that you have a soul, you’ll be doing that, too. Even though we’ll forget everything, I hope I can love you again before I disappear. That’s my wish. That’s a cool wish, right?”

Akaashi reached the last of the meal. He swallowed the meat, wooden chopsticks clattering against the dish. 

“I’ll go on ahead, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, “Maybe in your next life, you’ll forgive me.” 

When Akaashi looked up, he was alone in the room.  
  


* * *

  
When he woke up, he was thirsty.

He had never been thirsty before. His lips were cracked, mouth parched. He rolled his sandpaper tongue against his teeth, sitting up from the table. Sunlight streamed through the broken wooden door. Slowly, with his heavy legs, he stood up and stumbled outside. The snow had stopped falling, replaced by the sunshine and blue sky above him.

The shrine looked different. The stone statues had worn down on the edges, the buildings had rotting holes on the side, and the steps had moss crawling over the sides. The hall’s ornate decorations had fallen into decay, gold shine buffeted down into dark wood. Even the owl etchings on the side had turned into blurred marks. Akaashi turned towards the river, but only a shallow grove was left behind. 

His mouth felt disgusting. He stumbled up the steps to the basin, where only a small pool of water lingered below. He hesitated, but scooped what he could with the dipper, and pressed the dipper against his mouth. A little purification water against his mouth felt better than doing nothing, even if it would burn him. 

But the water trickled down his throat harmlessly, and he swallowed greedily. It tasted tepid and mossy, but the dampness against his desert throat felt good. When he quenched enough of his thirst, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked around. He had never slept for so long before, but he couldn’t panic. There was no reason to believe anything was wrong, even if his body had changed. 

“Bokuto-san,” he called out. A songbird chirped from a redwood. It was still early morning, but the sunlight would become his enemy in the afternoon. Without enough water, he would have to transverse the pathways to the human world. And, he thought wryly, it was hard for a river to step on the same person twice. 

His main task would be to find Bokuto. He peered into the buildings, covering his face from the mildew smell. In the end, only the main hall was left. He held his hand flat against the rotting wood. He didn’t feel the same sensation of transgression, but a hard hesitancy froze his hand. He thought that he wouldn’t like what he would see in there.

“Bokuto-san,” he said again, quiet through the door. He heard nothing. He pushed open the door, and the air around him didn’t change.

A bad smell hit his nose. He reeled back, hand covering his nose. 

Parts of the roof had collapsed, falling still into a pile beside a wall. A dingy mat covered the floor, dull grass breaking through the dirt. The beautiful world had disappeared into a plain room. In the place of a pond, a body laid still in the middle of the room.

He approached it, sleeve held over his face. He could see the white bone of the ribs, cracked open and standing like tombstones over the meaty flesh. The chest had been opened and emptied, inky bile mixing with chunks of remaining entrails. The blood spread over the grass, a dark pool beneath him. The culprit was clear since the corpse’s hands were coated in blood and bile, flecks of liver still decaying on the fingertips. Though the pungent smell rolled across the room, the rest of the corpse was fresh and untouched, except for the gouged eyes. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, through his sleeve. “Please get up.”

He waited. The afternoon sun had arrived early, beating down through the collapsed roof. 

“Bokuto-san,” he started, stopped, started. “I’ll be angry if you don’t get up.” 

Vomit surged in his throat, but he swallowed it down. His throat burned with the slick sensation. He saw the grand feast in his mind, and saw the emptied corpse in his reality. He bent down to shake the corpse’s shoulder, but slipped in the thin grass. His knees felt damp, palms of his hands covered in the disgusting blood. 

“Wake up,” he said, “or I’ll leave you behind.” From his new distance, he could see thin tears around the empty eye sockets where small talons had ripped apart the skin. The fur of the antlers had disappeared into pure white bone.

He stared at the corpse. He thought he might laugh, but his mouth twisted downward. Not laughter, then. Something else. He was feeling something else. Hatred. 

He hated him. He had never hated him more, this ugly hatred boiling inside him that tasted vile and hot on his tongue. He grabbed an antler and snapped it off with a hideous crack, splinters flying into the blood. His hand bled from the force, and it wasn’t healing like it usually did. He stabbed the bone antler into the ground, and stabbed it again, and again, and again. Blood spurted from the tears in his hand, covering his wrist in a slow, damp bleed. His muscles burned, heart aching in his full ribs. He stabbed it, more and more, dirt mingling with open wound and staining the bone. 

He left the antler in the dirt, sitting back on his knees. 

The sun felt hot against his face.

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Why would you do this?”

“I hate you.”

“Bokuto-san, wake up.”

“I won’t forgive you.”

“Why don’t you wake up?”

“Bokuto-san.”

Enough. He had enough. He had enough of nothingness and everything. He had enough of these new feelings in his body, like he had only just noticed the weight of his being. He had enough of those musky memories, evenings where Bokuto sat beside him in the dusk, describing the stars with his hands. Bokuto complaining even when Akaashi tied the obi around his waist. Bokuto leaping from a tree, landing on his feet, and twisting around to see if Akaashi had seen it. He let the pain and anger drain away, hands becoming feathers, feet curling into talons. 

He didn’t look at the corpse.

He wouldn’t look at the corpse.

He wouldn’t remember the weight of Bokuto against his shoulder. 

This meant nothing to him. The hollowness inside his chest was an illusion. He didn’t feel the rotting nothingness, but something emptier had replaced it. 

He flapped his wings once, twice. Even in the daytime, his eyes could adjust to the world around him. He flew now, through the hole in the roof, leaving the corpse and memories behind. He could have anything. Power, fortune, fame. 

He just couldn’t have the one thing he would ever want.

And gods take a long time to die.


	4. the devoured

**Thousands of Years Ago**

“This is a nice inn,” the stranger said. “Hey, do you ever think what it’d be like if nobody came here? Then you could sleep in a different room every night.”

“We would be out of business,” Akaashi said.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot about that part. I’ll stay one night then!” The stranger grinned. “If this is a nice inn, I’ll tell all my friends about it. That makes me a great customer.”

Akaashi didn’t think about the stranger until a few nights later, when a bad smell permeated the halls. His mother told him not to look into the room and to get his father. 

**Again**

A strange man ran across his family records. They never mentioned him intentionally, but he attended some of their gatherings and caused some notable problems. Akaashi read about the man’s loud snoring at a wedding. An author noted with some annoyance about how the man insisted on holding his aunt’s baby, kicking up a loud fuss until he got his turn. The man promptly panicked with the baby in his arms. 

He asked his grandmother about the strange man.

She said the energetic family friend had passed away some years ago.

**Again**

He arrived in the old manor to exorcise a spirit. From what he gathered, a mischievous young spirit from years ago had returned to upturn closets and knock over vases. The primary suspect was a young man who had passed away from a mysterious illness. The man apparently liked to draw. His family said he was quite confident in his skills, but they didn’t say his drawings were good. 

Akaashi found them endearing. They were wrong in all the charming ways. The young man had liked to draw things in motion, like the children playing on the dirt road. He even signed his name to all of them in a messy scribble. Akaashi passed the night digging through old possessions.

In the end, the culprit was the family dog.

**Again**

He helped prepare the meal for the warriors, but slipped away during the festivities to breathe outside. Someone joined him, features obscured in the darkness. He could tell the stranger was dressed nicely. They didn’t speak, though he wondered if he would get in trouble all the same. 

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to ride a star?” the man asked suddenly. 

“No.”

“Oh. Yeah. Me neither. Never thought about it.” The man peered at the stars with new disappointment on his face. Akaashi smiled. 

In the next week, he heard the warriors had been victorious, though their leader had perished.

**Hundreds of Years Ago**

“Hey hey.” 

Akaashi nodded respectfully to the regular patron who visited their shop. The man grinned lazily at him, blinking slow and steady in the sunset. 

“I’ve always wondered,” the man said, “but when you’re holding a stack of plates, don’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to drop all of them?”

“It would probably hurt.” 

“Eh? Oh, yeah, you’re right. That’s no good then.” The man frowned thoughtfully and rubbed his chest. 

“Is everything all right?”

“Oh, this? Not a problem, just a little heart issue. I’ll be back before you know it. Your specials are always the best.” 

The man never returned to the shop.

**Again**

Akaashi won a modest award for a photograph. His friends took him out to drinks, and he wandered home again to a quiet house. He opened his laptop to see his award-winning photograph. It was an ordinary picture and not his best. But it had a nice quality and good sharp angles. He had taken the picture in the busy street, and the people were blurs, moving forward to unknown spaces. 

One person seemed less blurry than the others. He magnified the person in laggard movements. Gray hair. Yellow eyes, perhaps a trick from the filter. The person seemed to be smiling at him. It was absurd to think that, considering he’d been kneeling behind a ragged advertisement banner. He hadn’t been hiding, but the person should have been heading the other way. 

He wondered where the person was going. 

He fell asleep in the eerie glow of his laptop, drunk and alone, with the program still opened on the photograph.

**Again**

He bought a secondhand book for class. It had been the cheapest in the store, but all the pages were intact. The edges of the pages were simply smudged and dirty. 

The smudges started off strong in the beginning, trailing off as the action trailed off. They appeared again in the middle as if somebody had told them the exciting part would be there. At a particularly tense part of the sword fight, the smudges stopped. Akaashi thought it was curious until he reached the end of the book, where a few smudges flipped through the end. They had redundantly dog-earred the last page with the happy ending.

After the class ended, he kept the book.

**Again**

The people down the street had moved away. Akaashi found the scrap of paper wound around a tree branch, written in a child’s scrawl. 

“MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT: I leave my coolest toys to my parents. I think that’s all. Wait, there’s that boy down the street. He’s always reading or playing with a ball. I wish I could have played with him! Too bad! Can I leave him something too? It would have been nice to be his friend.”

**Again**

He only attended the club because his friend insisted. The crowd gave him a headache and he already had three drinks. The opening band was atrocious. The singer had raw talent, but he was simply shouting into the microphone. But the rest of the band looked happy behind him, and even the most bored of the crowd picked up on the energy, tapping their feet. He found himself watching the singer, drawn to the way he smiled.

When he left, the crowd was still murmuring while the main attraction set up on stage.

“That was their last performance, right? Some liver thing with the singer?”

He found a bad cell phone recording of the show and kept the video on his computer.

**Again**

His neighbor was a florist. When Akaashi passed by the store, his neighbor would always greet him with a huge smile, like he had seen him for the first time in his life. 

“You should take these roses,” his neighbor said. “You stay cooped up in your house all the time! Trust me, they’ll brighten the place up. Give you an air of intrigue.” 

Some of the roses had been joined by other flowers. Akaashi idly searched for them in a book. They were apparently zinnias. He thought about asking his neighbor about them, but the store had been closed for days. 

**Fifty Years Ago**

“Doc,” his patient said, “Tell it to me straight. Am I the handsomest guy to pass through here?”

“No. If you’ll excuse me.” Akaashi left his patient groaning in the room. The gastroenterologist had the X-rays up. 

“Cheerful guy, isn’t he,” the doctor said. “Thanks for coming. He came in for a stomachache, and well. Didn’t expect to see multiple organ failure, especially with such a clean medical history.”

“Are these a second set of X-rays?”

“Something went wrong with the first. Looked like he didn’t have any organs at all.” The doctor shook his head. “He really cheered up when he saw you, though. Must be your charm. Too bad, though. We can’t do much for him.”

“I see,” Akaashi said. He knew it was regrettable, but he didn’t understand the slow weight on his heart, like he had failed again.

**Seven Years Ago**

“Bokuto-san, did you lose the—”

“I like you please go out with me!” Bokuto stood up straight. “Please!” 

Akaashi stared at the club room doorknob. He had some choices, and very few actually lead to finding the key to lock the door. First, he could refuse. Aside from the inevitable Bokuto breakdown, he would likely be pressured about the reasoning. Given how Bokuto always found him for lunch, he could assume his remaining high school days would be plagued with a jealous Bokuto, swearing vengeance on this mysterious lover who had captured Akaashi’s heart or something similarly ridiculous. The most immediate effect would be Bokuto’s bad mood, even worse with the practice match tomorrow. Bokuto could hit off another setter’s toss, but they worked best together. That left actually agreeing to Bokuto’s request, which opened another set of possibilities that could be more troublesome. Bokuto, simple-minded and pure-hearted, had probably ingested a large amount of ideas from volleyball club conversations. They would probably go to movies and eat dinner together. That being said, Bokuto was unlikely to release his hold on volleyball practice. With the exception of possibly weekends, their days would be remarkably similar. When he considered the monetary cost, he had to acknowledge that he had paid for Bokuto plenty of times when he’d forgotten his wallet. The biggest detriment, then, would be Bokuto’s enthusiasm on the court. If Bokuto kissed him after a successful spike, the referee would surely look down upon such behavior. But weighing this consideration against all the others, he found it manageable. 

“All right,” Akaashi said. “Bokuto-san, did you lose the club key?”

“Do you mean it!” Bokuto grabbed his shoulders. “Do you really mean it, Akaashi!” 

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” Akaashi said. “About the key—”

“I’m going out with Akaashi!” Bokuto lifted his arms above his head, victorious, and ran down the steps. He was still laughing when he ran around the corner. Akaashi breathed thinly through his teeth. It was his fault for not taking the key from Bokuto in the first place. He went down the steps, just in time for Bokuto to circle the building and grab him into a huge hug.  
  


* * *

  
First, he found the key at the bottom of Bokuto’s bag. Second, he told the other club members about the new dating situation and accepted their congratulations and sympathies. Third, he told Bokuto to not tell anyone about their relationship, especially the other club members. 

“I bought you this juice box,” Bokuto said loudly during practice, “but not because we’re in a relationship or anything! I’m getting you this platonic! Juice box!” 

“Thank you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. “But I already have water.” 

“Just drink the platonic juice box,” Konoha said, holding three volleyballs in his arms. 

“There’s nothing special between me and Akaashi!” Bokuto said, loud enough that even the coach, standing outside the gym, glanced back into the commotion. 

“Yeah, yeah. Drink it, Akaashi.” Konoha meandered away. 

Bokuto knelt down beside him.

“Can we hold hands when we go home?” he whispered. Akaashi pierced the box with the straw, chewing at the tip. 

“All right,” he decided. “Once the others have left.” Bokuto looked surprised at the easy acquiescence, but grinned like a happy child. 

Bokuto’s hand was clammy. Sometimes he glanced at Akaashi, looking for approval. Down the straight stretch, he settled down, grinning to himself. He swung their hands a bit. Akaashi found himself smiling, as well. The sunset felt peaceful, and he enjoyed Bokuto’s company. When the night had wound down, Bokuto ran downhill, slipping into the shadows. Akaashi smiled and followed.  
  


* * *

  
Bokuto bought him lunch sometimes. He would sit in the second year classroom, laughing so loudly the other students would glance nervously at him. Bokuto worried too much. He wouldn’t let Akaashi go home in the rain without an umbrella, and returned from the combini with Shonen Jump instead. Bokuto kissed him urgently, like he couldn’t believe his luck. 

When they were the only ones left at practice, Bokuto would pull him to the storage room and kiss him against the wall. Akaashi could say it was sloppy, but he felt his own kisses had too much precision and calculation. He almost envied how Bokuto would kiss him, enthusiastic and eager. Sometimes he’d wrap his arms around Bokuto’s waist, which always pleased him. The long knee pads rubbed against his thighs. The abandoned net drooped over the cart. 

During practice, he would sometimes tell Bokuto that he’d kiss him if he got fifty successive spikes over the blocks. On the occasion that he was blocked, Akaashi would kiss him for consolation. He’d part his lips and slip his tongue into Bokuto’s mouth, trailing it over his tongue. It felt good for him, but he suspected Bokuto felt it more. Every time he pulled away, Bokuto’s face flushed bright red, mouth still open in surprise. He liked Bokuto’s expressions, too. He would sit, chin resting on his knees, smiling at him and watching Bokuto try to speak.

He’d visit Bokuto’s house sometimes. He’d study at Bokuto’s otherwise empty table, leaving Bokuto to lie facedown on the bed. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto muttered into his pillow, “Ask me what’s wrong.”

“I see.”

“Ask me!” 

“What’s wrong, Bokuto-san.”

“I’m graduating soon.” Bokuto lifted up his head. “And that means we won’t see each other everyday! I miss you already! What am I going to do!” 

“You’re going to play university volleyball. Your university is relatively close, so you’ll get an apartment. After you get an apartment, I’ll visit you after practice.” Akaashi flicked his pencil on his notebook, conjugation half-completed. “It’s harder on my part. There are some promising first years, but—”

Bokuto wrapped his arms around him, head on his shoulder. He leaned forward to kiss Akaashi’s ear, drawing back with a mischievous smile. 

“You’re the best, Akaashi.” Bokuto dropped his chin down on Akaashi’s shoulder. “You’ll cook for me, right?”

“It’s less romantic when you try to bargain for household chores.” 

“Wait, you’re right.” 

The graduation was difficult. Bokuto’s face screwed up in an annoyed grimace, which Akaashi could tell was him holding back his tears. The other third years were less tense, occasionally crying, but mostly laughing at Bokuto’s face. 

The new school year was lonelier than he thought. He ate lunch with some classmates, but they didn’t laugh with their mouths full of food. Practice was quieter with a rigidity he hadn’t recognized since junior high volleyball. Even his homework was done quicker without Bokuto hanging off his shoulder, pestering him to set to him. Whenever he felt lonely, though, he’d check his phone and scroll down the Line messages Bokuto had sent in the meanwhile. When he felt particularly lonely, he played a quiet owl facts game with Bokuto. He’d send an owl fact to him, and Bokuto would spend the next ten minutes crowing over how he already knew about that. Bokuto’s ego would ramp up to unbelievable levels, but it was comforting to return to the typo-riddled messages.

When Bokuto didn’t respond to an owl fact one day, Akaashi headed to his apartment directly after practice. He had planned a later visit to cook some dinner, but his silent phone concerned him. When he used the key to unlock the door, all was silent in the room. 

“Bokuto-san,” he called out, feeling for the light switch. A Bokuto lump was in the middle of the bed. Akaashi sighed, sat at the table, and pulled out his notes. He studied a few pages, checking the time to see if he needed to prepare dinner yet.

“Ask me what’s wrong,” the lump said.

“What’s wrong, Bokuto-san.”

“I messed up during practice.” 

“That’s a shame.” 

“It was bad, Akaashi! They’re not going to toss to me anymore!” Bokuto banged his fists against his wall. His neighbor, likely beleaguered, banged against the wall in return. 

“You’re a good wing spiker. They wouldn’t refrain from using you.” Akaashi circled something in his notebook. “They’re likely trying to adjust to your pace, as you’re adjusting to them. Give it time.” 

“They’re going to hate me forever.” 

“You’re going to practice tomorrow, and you’ll find that things are better than you think.” Akaashi closed his notebook. “I’ll kiss you if you want.” 

The lump stayed still for a moment, and then Bokuto rose. He sat next to Akaashi and inched closer to him, glancing at him and at the table nervously. Akaashi smiled. 

“I can’t tell if you want to kiss or not,” Akaashi said. “Come here.”

“You’re mean, Akaashi.” But Bokuto leaned forward, kissing him. He was more subdued than usual. Akaashi took the lead, sliding his hand to the back of his neck and pulling him forward. When it didn’t dramatically influence the team, he found Bokuto’s moods could be slightly endearing. 

He cooked dinner while Bokuto stole and played with his phone, switching around wallpapers and flipping through his pictures. 

“Hey, you still have me under Bokuto under your contacts.” 

“That is your name,” Akaashi said, stirring the pot. “And that is what I call you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have you under Akaashi. Is dinner ready yet?”

“In another few minutes. You can watch some videos on my phone.” 

When he got home, Akaashi sat on his bed and flipped through his home screen. An old picture of onigiri had found its way to his wallpaper. The contacts had been changed from Bokuto to Koutarou. He thought Bokuto could leave his last name and just add his first, but he didn’t change it back. He rearranged the icons Bokuto had accidentally moved, and studied before going to sleep. 

He woke up to a text from Koutarou about how Akaashi was right, how he was so cool, and a picture of Bokuto posing in front of the net. Akaashi made it his new wallpaper and prepared for school.  
  


* * *

  
After he graduated, he moved into Bokuto’s apartment without much fuss. The upkeep was far easier when he lived there. He joined the volleyball team and withstood Bokuto introducing him to everybody as his platonic, definitely not dating, nope, not at all, friend. He had just settled into a routine when Bokuto broke it. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto said, staring at the game show on the television, “Do you want to have sex?” 

“I’ve considered it,” Akaashi said, the truth slipping from his mouth. It wasn’t incriminating, but he thought he should have said something more definite. He knew Bokuto sometimes got hard during late night kissing, but they hadn’t talked about it. Still, he’d thought about the possibility. 

“I think it’d be fun.” Bokuto turned towards him, grin both smug and shy. “I want to try it, Akaashi.”

“All right,” he said. “Not right now, but later.” 

Bokuto stayed in a good mood for the rest of the night. He volunteered to wash the dishes and hummed while brushing his teeth. At night, before they went to sleep, he kissed Akaashi with a particularly searing impression. Akaashi listened to Bokuto snore.

The next evening, Bokuto went out with some friends. Akaashi stayed home, opening his laptop and pulling on his headphones. He had done some preliminary research, but he knew Bokuto wouldn’t come back until late that night. He clicked on a porn link with a fairly discreet title, “MAN LOVE.” He wasn’t expecting much, but it seemed more downplayed than its neighbors.

Soft grunts filled his headphones. The two men fucked on screen, pixels constantly shifting. He observed their positions from the different camera angles, chin on his knees. He felt like he was studying rather than learning, mentally noting down the easiest angles and the least stressful positions. 

He thought about Bokuto above him, wide-eyed and hair mussed. 

His hand slipped under his waistband. He jerked himself off in slow, easy motions, eyes closed and imagining Bokuto breathing over him, watching his every move with the predatory look. Maybe Bokuto would grin down at him, or no, have that intense, focused look before a match. He could imagine the sensation, ricocheting up from his hips, and Bokuto’s thighs pressed against his. He had seen Bokuto in the showers, but the thought of him so close, touching him, kissing him, begging him, made him shudder into his hand. 

He sat back, sweating through his thin shirt. The come pooled in the wrinkles of his hand. 

A week later, he showed Bokuto the instructions for a blow job on his phone. As he suspected, Bokuto had done no research at all, and was suitably impressed by Akaashi’s knowledge. Akaashi considered giving him a blow job first, but he had no prior experience, either, and Bokuto seemed eager to try it. 

“I got a big mouth,” Bokuto said, “so I think I’d be really good at it.”

Akaashi felt a little stupid, sitting on the bed with his sleeping shorts pulled down. But Bokuto stared up at him with dilated pupils and open mouth, surprisingly meek. Akaashi would have predicted hey hey hey, you’ll feel great, hey hey hey. But he liked his docile side, too, and he mingled his fingers into Bokuto’s hair, guiding him. Bokuto hesitantly slipped his cock into his mouth, and seemed to gain a little more confidence. He sucked and licked with more ardor than skill, but his mouth felt wet and good. The room was quiet except for slurping and soft grunting. Akaashi’s ears burned. He was used to seeing his own erection, but not so damp and not so close to Bokuto’s mouth. He could feel him exhaling over the slick skin, trying to manage breathing and sucking at the same time. He could even feel him on the insides of his thighs, where Bokuto brushed against them. His cock twitched in Bokuto’s mouth. His stomach felt warm. 

Bokuto pulled back, face flushed and breathing heavily. He opened his mouth wide, supposedly to follow up on his big mouth statement, and trailed his tongue beneath the throbbing head. Akaashi must have breathed too quick and loud, cold air filling his lungs, because Bokuto looked up at him with surprise and adoration. Slowly, Bokuto stuck out his tongue again, trailing like a whisper along the ridge. Akaashi covered his mouth with his hand, trying to think up an excuse for his reaction. 

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, grinning lazily with bright eyes, “I like this.” 

In the end, Bokuto finished him off with his hand, kneeling on the bed. Akaashi sat with his back against the wall, heels dug into the bed. Bokuto had rough hands, likely from hitting the ball everyday. He was clumsy and moved too fast. But he had an unusual tenderness to him, quiet and careful. Sometimes he’d flick his glance at Akaashi’s face, looking for approval. Akaashi thought he liked this side of him, too. 

Akaashi came with a soft grunt and jerk, fingers clenching the bed. The tension slowly drained from his muscles, replaced with a warm, loose feeling. Bokuto stared at the come in his hand, and Akaashi grabbed some tissues to wipe it off. 

“I did it,” Bokuto said, “I did it! Hey hey, Akaashi, let’s do it again. Can we do it again? I think I can do it better.” 

“I’m tired.” Akaashi balled the tissue and wiped along the lines. “We can do this tomorrow.”

“That’s awesome.” Bokuto grinned, smug and pleased. Akaashi felt slightly vindictive, so he pressed his palm against Bokuto’s erection beneath the thin fabric of his shorts. Bokuto stopped grinning, stiffening in surprise and staring at Akaashi with unspoken hopefulness. 

Akaashi smiled. 

It was different. Bigger than he expected, a weight against his hand. He trailed his fingers over the veins, and Bokuto muffled a cry against the crook of his neck. The angle was awkward when Bokuto leaned against him, but they were sitting close to the neighbor’s wall and Bokuto was loud. Akaashi could feel it throbbing underneath his fingertips, pre-cum sticky where it trailed from the tip. It was easier than he expected, since Bokuto would grunt and twitch every time he found a sensitive spot. It was harder than he expected, since Bokuto would say his name against his ear, trailing out the syllables with a coarse and keening desperation. He came quickly, but Akaashi wasn’t surprised. Bokuto had approached him with his face already burning red.

That night, Bokuto slung an arm around Akaashi’s waist and pulled him close. He snored into his ear. Akaashi kept an arm over the covers, staring at the faint pattern of the wall in the cool darkness. Sex was more complicated than he’d thought. He had certain expectations. He thought he’d suck Bokuto off, and Bokuto would fall asleep or demand another. Akaashi had already planned a bargaining technique to dwindle his demands. 

He hadn’t expected Bokuto to be gentle. He didn’t expect to be loved so much. For some reason, he felt uneasy.

A deep snore cut into his thoughts, so he closed his eyes and salvaged his sleep.  
  


* * *

  
Bokuto was getting better at volleyball. He was getting better at buying food from the grocery stores, too. Akaashi could reasonably expect him to come back with at least one item from the shopping list, and three items that had been crossed out for a reason. He was getting better at blow jobs, too, even if he wasn’t getting better at asking Akaashi.

“I’m hungry,” he sometimes said, and Akaashi would have to reflect on the proximity of their last meal to recognize what he was asking. It was easy enough to take him by the hand to some secluded area and let him drop to his knees. 

Bokuto approached the opportunity with the same undying enthusiasm to sports. He’d ask, again and again. With practice, he could deep throat on good days. He could swirl his tongue around the head with a smug grin, or press his mouth against his balls. Sometimes he’d wrap his hand around the base of the cock, jerking him off and sucking him off at the same time. He was louder, too, trying to speak with cock on the inside of his cheek. The vibrations went deep into a warm pit in Akaashi’s stomach, and he’d try to hide his face with his hand. Bokuto would let him come over his face or he would swallow it down his throat. Akaashi preferred the first since he liked the sight of warn come clinging to Bokuto’s eyelashes and rolling over his mouth. And if Bokuto swallowed it, he would still kiss him. Akaashi didn’t object, but the taste still felt unpleasant against his tongue. 

He knew what Bokuto liked best. Sometimes Akaashi would let his hand rest on Bokuto’s head, and he would look up, a new light in his eyes. 

Akaashi had reasonable concerns on the state of Bokuto’s knees, so when possible, he would make Bokuto strap on his knee pads. It wasn’t like he had a kink. Nor did he get unreasonably turned on when they made out after practice and he could push the shorts higher, trailing his fingers along the rough knee pads and delving into the hard line of his muscular thighs. He didn’t get turned on at all. He only bought knee pads for Bokuto’s home use because it wouldn’t be good if he wore out his volleyball pair. It wasn’t like he was interested in the sliver of skin under the shorts and above the knee pads. Bokuto simply should take care of his knees. 

“You’re so smart,” Bokuto said. 

“Yes,” Akaashi said. “Now please put on your knee pads.”

He would sometimes blow Bokuto, but his hand worked just as well. Sometimes he’d tell Bokuto to finish by jerking himself off on the bed while he watched from the chair. Bokuto would come quickly from that, too, face flushed and fingers twitching. 

“Did you see that, Akaashi?” he would ask. “Was that good?”

“Yes, very good.” Akaashi would grab the tissues and help clean up. He didn’t understand the question. It was good in the sense that Bokuto finished, but even if Bokuto hadn’t finished, Akaashi would have helped. But Bokuto always grinned smugly, like there had never been any doubt. 

Anal sex was on the table, but Akaashi thought they should move slowly. He didn’t want any injuries that would prevent them from playing volleyball. Bokuto had no such qualms, enthusiastic and responsive. Even more annoyingly, he didn’t need much stretching at all for Akaashi to fit three fingers inside him. Bokuto, apparently, was good at everything. But Akaashi still tabled it for later, since he didn’t want any adjustments to the way Bokuto moved during games. 

Despite his carefulness, Akaashi still fell sick. A mild cold had plagued the campus, and he had somehow caught it. He warned Bokuto away from him, but Bokuto still busied around the apartment, making porridge and fetching ice packs. The porridge wasn’t as bad as he thought. Bokuto could cook if he tried. 

“You’ll catch my cold,” Akaashi said once more. His stuffy nose turned his sharp warning into a muffled annoyance. 

“I don’t get sick easily like you. Besides, I’ll just sweat it out.” Bokuto flexed his biceps. Akaashi coughed dryly and returned to his porridge. When he finished, he let his head fall back onto the pillow. After he closed his eyes, he felt Bokuto’s rough hand cover his own.

“What are you doing,” Akaashi mumbled.

“Holding your hand. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Why?”

“So you’ll feel better! You can’t get lost in your sleep, because then you’ll know I’m here.”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll feel that.” 

“You’ll feel it!” Bokuto pointed to himself with his thumb. “Trust me.” 

Bokuto’s hand was slightly sweaty and mostly heavy. Akaashi could feel his weight pinning down his hand. Though he expected Bokuto to grow bored and leave within a few minutes, Bokuto stayed with him for a long while. He could feel Bokuto pushing the damp hair from his forehead. Akaashi slept comfortably. He didn’t know if the hand by his side played any role, but he felt almost serene when he woke up, like the hoarseness of his throat and pinched feeling of his nose had disappeared. 

His headache returned with a vengeance when he learned Bokuto had overworked himself during practice without Akaashi to stand guard. 

“At least,” Bokuto said, towel over his eyes, “it’s not a cold.”  
  


* * *

  
They stopped by the mall for a date. Akaashi liked a moderately priced store that sold simple, but high quality, clothing. He spent most of his time in sports outfits, but he wanted something nicer when visiting back home. For Bokuto, he chose outfits with more design and bulk. He knew Bokuto’s size, but he still wandered around the sleek tiled floors to compare the shoulder length of the jacket. 

Behind a display of jewelry, he heard faint whispering. 

“Wow, take a look at that guy.”

“Don’t point, that’s mean!” 

“What’s with that face?” 

Akaashi frowned. He didn’t see the spectators, but he saw Bokuto staring at a mannequin. Ignoring the whispers, he passed a rich plaid display off a hanger. 

“Hey, Akaashi. Is me or this mannequin taller?”

“With or without the hair?”

“Whatever makes me win!”

“Of course it’s you, Bokuto-san.” He pulled Bokuto’s arms up, holding the jacket against his back. He wasn’t ashamed of their relationship, but he did prefer to keep his privacy. Last names and honorifics seemed the best way to do that. Something in his mind murmured that first names would be perfectly fine for close high school friends, too, and the university volleyball team wouldn’t pay attention. He didn’t want to investigate the line of thought. A strange feeling stirred inside him.

He heard more whispering and giggles from the jewelry stand. He turned to glare at the spectators, but he could only see the twisting earrings, glittering in the soft department store lights. 

“Don’t mind them. They’re not talking about you,” Bokuto said, tugging at the jacket. “Is this for me? It looks great.”

“It’s a bit small,” Akaashi said. “You heard what they were saying?”

“If they saw me playing volleyball, they wouldn’t say that. They’d be my biggest fans! So don’t worry about it, Akaashi. People say I’m off-putting all the time! Don’t you know that?” Bokuto frowned on a new line of thought. “Wait, does that mean you don’t know you’re handsome, either? Akaashi! You’re incredibly good looking!” 

“People can hear you, Bokuto-san.”

“You’re completely right!” 

Akaashi threw another withering glance at the origin of the whispers, but they had long since disappeared. He reluctantly withdrew to the jackets, finding something he liked on Bokuto in a larger size. When he returned, Bokuto was standing on tip-toes, comparing himself to yet another mannequin. Akaashi pushed his shoulders down, keeping him steady to compare the width. He leaned forward to whisper in his ear. 

“When we get home, you can put it in me.” 

Bokuto twisted around, ready to shout, but Akaashi placed a finger over his mouth and smiled. He enjoyed seeing the heat rise to Bokuto’s ears. His itinerary stated they would finish shopping, watch a movie, and eat in a little shop in a classic date format. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so vengeful. It wasn’t like it would prove anything. But he didn’t change his mind, accepting the purchases in the bag. 

It had begun snowing again outside. He’d brought an umbrella, and Bokuto insisted on holding it. The busy city pulsed with people crowding down the sidewalk. A few more umbrellas sprouted, bright colors against the gray backdrop. People staring at their cell phones waited in line at their bus stop. 

Akaashi wasn’t particularly sensitive to the cold, but his hands felt icy. A dull red bloomed around his knuckles, and he rubbed his hands together. He considered taking Bokuto’s jacket and wrapping it around his hands, but that would cause trouble. He glanced at the potential troublemaker, who had been uncharacteristically silent. 

Bokuto held the umbrella, nose and ears already pink from the cold. A few snowflakes had fallen in the crook of his elbows, melting in delicate dots. His face was distant and focused, vapor drifting from a slightly open mouth. Bokuto was readying himself. 

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Akaashi said. “It’s written all over your face.”

“I’m not nervous!” 

“Ah, really.”

“Fine, I’m nervous!” Bokuto gritted his teeth, mouth turned downwards. “It’s my first time and your first time doing something like this! It has to go really well!” 

“That’s an unreasonable expectation.”

“It isn’t!” Bokuto hit his fist against his open palm, and the umbrella nearly toppled over. “I should be gentle!”

“Act normally.” Akaashi blew on his fingers. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re too cool, Akaashi. But I want to do something for you!” Bokuto frowned. “I was really happy when you said you’d come to this university, you know. I thought you’d want to go to some really smart school.”

“This is a good school,” Akaashi said. “It has a good business program and excellent volleyball team. I would have applied here even if you hadn’t been accepted.” 

“Really?” The bus arrived, faint smog hissing from the engines. The line slowly moved forward. Akaashi stuck his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling for their cards. He had never discussed it with Bokuto, but he had talked over his university choice with his parents. The school was competitive enough and convenient in location. The word boyfriend had never entered the fray. 

He swiped their passes. Bokuto took the window seat, palm already sealed against the pane. Akaashi slid beside him, dumping his bag into Bokuto’s lap. The trip hadn’t been long enough to merit earphones, but he stuck one into his left ear and stared at his fingers. He wondered if Bokuto thought he came to the university solely for him. Bokuto had been a consideration, but not a factor that would have swayed his mind.

“Hey, Akaashi, look. That’s the store you like, right? I didn’t know they had one this close.” Bokuto tugged at his hand, pointing outside the window. The bus idled at the red light long enough for Akaashi to glance at the familiar logo. Bokuto’s hand lingered over his own. Bokuto’s hands were big and always warm. Akaashi listened to the silence of his earphone. 

En route to their apartment, Akaashi stopped by the small store across from the flickering streetlamp. He bought five meat buns for himself and two for Bokuto, and energy drinks for later. Bokuto stood by the bike racks, fidgeting and twisting impatiently. 

“Let’s do it!” Bokuto said, grabbing his free hand. 

“You’ll disturb the neighbors.”

“They already know I’m a pain!” 

Since Akaashi carried the key, Bokuto had to wedge himself against the railing while he waited. Akaashi thought Bokuto’s impatient expressions were amusing, so he counted out the keys like spreading out cards. But his strange mood had passed and he wanted to have sex, too.

When he entered the apartment, toeing off his shoes, the door slammed shut behind him. Akaashi slid the food onto the small table in time for Bokuto to push him against the wall, kissing him eagerly. Akaashi considered dimly that their neighbors would not thank them for this, but his hands already wrapped around Bokuto’s neck. Bokuto burned hot, searing against Akaashi’s cold mouth. Practice really did make perfect. Bokuto broke off the kiss to catch Akaashi’s soft earlobe in his mouth, hoisting him up to press kisses down his sensitive neck. Akaashi was barely standing on his own, supported mostly by the wall flat against his back and Bokuto’s power. He didn’t think it would be good for Bokuto’s back, but he knew the way Bokuto licked his neck was bad for his heart. He raked his fingers through Bokuto’s hair, and then pulled at the strands for him to kiss again. Bokuto obliged, bunching up Akaashi’s heavy winter coat. Akaashi grinded his hips down, rewarded by Bokuto’s breathy groan and the feeling of something hard. 

“Wait,” Akaashi said, panting, “We can’t—here.” 

“Of course we can,” Bokuto said desperately. “We can do it everywhere, Akaashi.” He kissed him again, frantic against his chin. Of course they could do it everywhere, but Akaashi unfortunately actually had classes to sit through and volleyball practice to run and jump and stretch. He had many similar sharp words to say, but Bokuto smelled so good and felt so strong against him.

“Bed,” Akaashi said. He shoved Bokuto’s shoulder, enough for Bokuto to reluctantly release him. Akaashi stumbled onto the carpet, shedding his jacket onto the floor. He dug under the bed for the small package he’d labeled Bokuto: Do Not Touch, Level 2 for this purpose. He sat on his heels, elbows on the mattress, while Bokuto kissed his neck and fondled with his ass. It was, he suppose, expected. But it was starting to feel distractingly good, his heart pounding in his ears and his fingers slightly sweaty. Bokuto squeezed his ass. Akaashi missed the edge of the box, tearing a frayed crest over the thin cardboard. The horse on the cover gazed soulfully at him. 

“We’re really doing it,” Bokuto said, too close to his ear. “Wow, we’re really going to do it.” Akaashi lifted himself onto the bed because he wanted to feign composure for another few seconds. 

“I said we were,” Akaashi said. “Now finger me while you blow me.” Bokuto always looked surprised and overwhelmingly turned on when Akaashi was outspoken. He supposed he didn’t say much, not when he silently lead Bokuto to the storage room and pushed down on his shoulders. 

Somewhere between the door and the bed, Bokuto had taken off his corny shirt and jeans. Now he reached over to help Akaashi with his shirt by tangling his hands in his hair and being generally unhelpful. Bokuto had wedged his knee between Akaashi’s legs, and now kissed down his chest, hands moving to splay over his sides and his pinky curved over the delicate peek of hipbones. 

“You’re so hot, Akaashi,” Bokuto murmured, lips pressed against the hard muscle of his abdomen. “It’s not fair, you getting to be this hot. I want to- I want to lift you up. I want to fuck you. I want you.” Akaashi still wanted to build more muscle, but he liked the way Bokuto’s strong arms looked against his waist. Like he really could fuck him while lifting him. The twitch of his cock did not go unobserved against Bokuto’s leg, and Bokuto looked up at him, breath heavy but still tame. Akaashi grabbed Bokuto’s hand and pulled away, trying to kick off his jeans and underwear at the same time. They would have to do the laundry later, since Akaashi didn’t have the time to prepare the towels. He squirted the lube onto Bokuto’s hand, rubbing it over his rough fingers. 

“Go slow,” Akaashi said, “and be—fuck.” Bokuto already was impatient, taking the half-hard erection in his mouth and swallowing around the head. His tongue flicked over the slit, sliding down over the shaft in a sticky trail. Bokuto knew his cock and the things that made his breath hitch, toes curling against the sheets. He was practiced in hollowing out his cheeks, sucking hard so suddenly, warm and wet mouth so close to the base. He traced sloppy trails down the shaft, tongue slipping to his balls for a whispered touch. Akaashi stifled his hitched groans with his arm thrown across his mouth. Bokuto was pumping his mouth, lips already swollen and red, but Akaashi still wanted to grab the back of his head and truly fuck his mouth.

When he felt the first warm finger enter him, he almost kicked Bokuto in the face. He didn’t, quite, but only because the angle was wrong. The tension had been draining out of him, but it returned now. He arched his back, thigh muscles already strung tight. He was too tense. He needed to relax, but the finger felt so tight inside him and strange, even though he had fingered himself before. 

“What’s wrong, Akaashi?” Bokuto glanced up, his mouth a beautiful mess. He slid up the bed, finger still perched inside him. The light sank from the window, casting a soft glow on his concerned eyebrows. Akaashi could say no, not now, later. It would be easy. But he wanted this for them, even though the small rational voice in his mind said there was nothing to prove. He just wanted to feel good. He felt complex. He felt irritated. 

“You said you’d be gentle,” he said instead. 

“I forgot!” Bokuto furrowed his eyebrows even higher. Akaashi concentrated on relaxing, even when he felt the finger work his way up his ass. Relax, he thought, don’t think about practice and school and that email he’d left open on his cell phone and Bokuto was kissing him on his neck again, rough kisses that were his translation of gentle. He’d added another finger now, working into him, thumb brushing against the untouched side of his thigh. 

Akaashi thought, screw gentle, and grabbed Bokuto by the hair. He bent down and bit near his collarbone, sinking his teeth into the flesh and sucking. 

“Akaashi—” Bokuto shook above him, pressed taut against his side. “Akaashi, fuck, Akaashi—” He was loud, and Akaashi liked the vibrations pulsing through his mouth. He licked where he’d bitten, lavishing over the shallow dips in the skin. He rutted his hips against Bokuto’s hand, and Bokuto clumsily slipped in another finger. The stretch felt like a slow burn, but his body adjusted. Bokuto had his fingers curled and he sometimes brushed against something good inside him, making him jerk and dig his nails into Bokuto’s back, clawing down his shoulder blades. He was tensing up again, but in a better way, toes curling and thighs flexing. His face felt too hot. Bokuto was practically humping his leg, rocking the bed against the wall.

“Please, Akaashi, please—let me fuck you—you’re so tight—Akaashi, please—” Akaashi squeezed down on Bokuto’s fingers, and Bokuto shuttered his eyes closed, euphoric bewilderment playing over his face. He could feel the spreading wet patch on Bokuto’s boxers, the tent on the fabric prominent and bulging. 

“Remember to be gentle,” Akaashi said, rewarding him by throwing the box of condoms to his chest. He felt disappointed and a little emptier when Bokuto drew out his dripping fingers, shivering at the sensation. He tried to calm down, considering volleyball practice and the laps he’d have to run. But he knew he didn’t want gentleness when Bokuto pulled down his boxers and rolled the condom clumsily over his cock. When he had gotten to the bottom of rolling it, Bokuto steadied himself with one hand against the bed, forearm pressed against Akaashi’s leg, like he always wanted to be touching him. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto said gravely, “I’ll be good to you.” He had a serious expression, eyes narrowed and focused. It reminded him of volleyball practice, which wasn’t good, because he didn’t want to be turned on by volleyball practice. To take his mind off it, he grabbed Bokuto’s face and leaned up to kiss him, lingering on his lower lip and hand fluttering to where the hickey would arise. 

“I said gentle, not good,” Akaashi whispered into his ear. “Now how long are you going to wait? I want you.” Bokuto whipped his head around to stare at him with a look of happy obedience, and Akaashi felt himself flushing. He turned, hiding his blush, and grabbed their pillow to squeeze under his back. Classes tomorrow, he reminded himself. A lecture he shouldn’t skip. He could feel his willpower for gentleness fading fast when Bokuto grabbed his hips roughly, big hands covering the curve of his bone. Bokuto steadied himself with a hand on Akaashi’s thigh, pushing into him until he was partially buried inside him.

“Fuck, Akaashi—it’s good—do you see it—it’s good—” Bokuto was babbling, excited and happy and aroused all at once. Akaashi couldn’t see it well from his angle, but he felt like a sticky mess, lube dripping near the inside of his thighs, and he felt strangely full. It hurt in a dull way, like a pain that was happening to someone else, but even that faded in concern for his dripping cock. He stroked himself a few times, letting the pleasure build up like a furnace inside him again. Bokuto wasn’t moving, still talking himself hoarse, likely out of concern. Akaashi pushed himself down on Bokuto’s cock, taking in more, groaning softly behind a muffling hand. 

“Hey,” Akaashi said, lowering his hand to drape over his mouth, “You can move now.” It was like he flipped a switch, burning fire lighting in Bokuto’s eyes. Akaashi had hoped Bokuto wouldn’t follow too strictly on gentleness, and his hopes were granted. Inspired by pent-up lust, Bokuto drove into him in short and needy bursts, blunt fingernails digging into his sides. With his fingers, it had felt smaller and shorter and almost clinical. This was carnal hunger and need. Bokuto pounded into him and he was shaking from the waves, grabbing onto Bokuto’s arm and trying his best not to let go. 

He could hear Bokuto above him, cursing and mingling his name between them. He was moving so fast, he could feel the sharp sting of flesh against flesh when he buried deep into him, and the need was building and burning inside him. Sometimes Bokuto would ram into him in just the right way and he felt sensitive all over, head light and body heavy, breath hitched and rolling into ragged moans. He shook with a keen desperation, hand dipped down to wrap around his cock and jerk clumsily down the length, out of rhythm. It mounted inside him, hot and rippling from his stomach, and Bokuto was saying Akaashi, fuck, Akaashi, Akaashi, like he was running out of breath, and he could feel him full inside of him and calloused hands pulling on his hips and his muscles were all straining and he could smell him so close and he wanted it and him and he was coming in thick stripes over his own stomach, trembling, leaning back and watching the rhythm slow until he felt too sensitive to withstand it and pulled away, tired and languid. 

He thought the adrenaline would keep him up, but it had drained out of him quickly. An old sleepiness had settled into him, heavy on the eyelids. He sometimes felt sleepy after sex, but not so strongly. Somewhere beside him, he could hear the squeak of latex being tied off. His entire body felt too hot. He wanted to shower, but he more strongly wanted to sleep, especially when the good glow had settled around him. No strength remained in his bones.

“I love you, Akaashi,” Bokuto said beside him, breathless and happy. Akaashi murmured something in an understanding tone, and Bokuto kissed him on the ear. He thought he was prodded to sit up and get dressed, but they came in sporadic dreamlike glimpses. He didn’t remember falling asleep. 

He woke up by the chill of his hand, stuck out from the warm blankets. The heat trapped in the blankets had just the right temperature, not too hot and not too cold. In the cold winter nights, a warm sleep was the best sleep. Akaashi still felt tired, eyelids heavy. He couldn’t keep falling asleep after sex, especially when he had to clean things off. Bokuto, snoring beside him with an arm flung around his side, probably had just dumped the mess on the floor. 

A valiant effort later, Akaashi partially emerged from the warmth cocoon and grabbed his cell phone from the nearby stand. He dimmed down the painful light, eyes still throbbing, and checked the time. The early morning was well before any of their classes. Akaashi let his phone fall into sleep mode, already crawling back into the blankets. Something occurred to him, and though his fingers felt like granite, he woke up his phone and flicked over to his email. 

He’d been reading an acceptance letter into a business program. It would be a good opportunity, the email assured him, with a reputable company. He had applied on an idle note and hadn’t noticed that most of the openings would be in a different city, far away from Tokyo. Even if the email had polished up the tone, it was nevertheless a good opportunity and he’d been lucky to be accepted in the first place. His thumb hovered over the deletion button.

Instead, he logged out of his email and hid the app. Bokuto borrowed his phone all the time. It wasn’t like he was ashamed of his acceptance, but he didn’t want Bokuto to see it for some reason. His tablet, where he kept most important reading documents, was password protected and kept with the Bokuto: Do Not Touch, Level 10 things. He could always read his email from there. 

This time, when he forced his phone into sleep mode, the darkness felt less inviting. He’d done enough activity to warm up his brain, slow on thoughts but still active enough to be awake. He set the phone down and settled underneath the blankets. Bokuto was drawn to the heat source and wrapped his arm around him again. 

He expected they would discuss having sex tomorrow over breakfast. Bokuto would be insistent and ask how it was, and he would say it was fine, and Bokuto would be happy. It was easy and convenient. 

He closed his eyes and frowned.  
  


* * *

  
It happened a few weeks later. 

They had planned to go on a date, but Akaashi wanted to study with a classmate. He’d texted him a mild apology, and received fifty messages in return, which he didn’t read and took as acceptance. He walked home, considering taking the train. It still snowed sporadically, but much of the fallen snow had melted into dirty slush against the sidewalk and street, dripping down the sewer grates. 

The shops had been decorated in overzealous tinsel and flickering Christmas lights. For Christmas, Akaashi already had a gift planned out. His parents had given him amusement park tickets they’d received at work, which they assumed he’d give to a friend. He wasn’t quite the amusement park type of person, but Bokuto would definitely ride everything and throw up in a trashcan. The year before, he’d given Bokuto some sports equipment. On the actual Christmas day, the crowds would be annoying, so he hoped Bokuto would be content staying inside. 

He turned the corner and passed by yet another store decked out in lights, but something caught his eye. He slowed down, fingers crammed in his pockets. Inside the store, Bokuto was talking to someone. Akaashi considered entering the store as well and withstanding Bokuto’s haranguing about cancelled dates. But something stopped him.

Bokuto was smiling, laughing, talking to the salesclerk. He looked happier than he’d seen him in years. He held onto two pair of gloves, pointing to one and furrowing his brow. With another laugh, he held up his hand to slightly below his forehead. He grinned and laughed, and held up the gloves again.

Akaashi felt sick. He pulled up his collar to cover his face and walked quickly down the street. His mind snapped through several options, but the simulations had the same end. He nearly walked into a mailbox, and rested a fist atop the flaking cold metal. His world had ended so quietly.  
  


* * *

  
“Akaashi! I got you a meat bun, but I ate yours. So you can have mine.” Bokuto jogged across the small park. The cement eclipse wasn’t actually a park, but it had a bench with hanging wisteria and the shrubbery hid the busy street outside. It had no play structures or flexible rubber, but patterned pavement stretching into an infinite loop. 

“Thank you,” Akaashi said, “but I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry? You?” Bokuto bit into his newly claimed meat bun, sitting down beside him. “What’s wrong, Akaashi? Feeling sick?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you eat without me? I told you, I wanted to eat dinner together. Ah, wait, then I shouldn’t have bought this then. But it’s just a little bit! I only bought you one and not the usual five, so doesn’t that make it okay?”

“Let’s break up.”

The snow beneath his feet had melted into a small river, running down the grooves of the cement. He wanted to be that small, too.

“Hey, Akaashi. That’s not funny.” 

In the end, Bokuto was a great boyfriend. Akaashi balled up his fists in his coat and withstood his greatness. Bokuto laughed, and shouted, and yelled, and begged, and pleaded, and bargained. He was angry first, which was good. Akaashi could take the anger like he was a statue, cold granite accepting of the cold weather. But Bokuto was saying ugly things like how he was glad this happened, he was happy, he’d be better off without Akaashi, and his statue exterior was being worn away. He knew Bokuto didn’t mean it. But later, Bokuto would sit alone in the empty apartment and curl up in a corner, regretting everything he said in the heat of the moment. He didn’t want that. Shout more curse words. Tell him how he was treating him like shit and that he was a fucking bastard. He could take that. 

The begging was harder. Bokuto promised himself away in slices. He wouldn’t snore. He wouldn’t come home late. He would control himself and he wouldn’t do annoying things anymore. He’d be a better boyfriend. He’d be a better friend. He’d be a better person. He’d remember to send out thank you cards. He would only eat his share of dinner. He’d stop waking up Akaashi in the middle of the night. He would finally fix the plumbing in the bathroom. He wouldn’t buy candy anymore when they went to the store. He would stop being himself. Akaashi couldn’t imagine Bokuto being happy with any of his promised tasks. 

It cycled over and over. Anger. Sadness. Begging. Bokuto persisted in asking why, which was a good question. It deserved to be answered. If Akaashi was a great boyfriend, he might have even answered it. But he said nothing, and the sun touched down on the horizon. The uncomfortable darkness followed, casting enough light to see dim shapes and outlines without any details.

“Akaashi, I don’t get it. I’m dumb so I don’t get it.” Bokuto clutched onto his sleeve. “I love you. A lot. I love you more than anything. What did I do wrong? I’ll do anything to fix it. I promise.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Akaashi said. He hated how his voice sounded, cracking because he’d sat silent for hours. Bokuto’s voice was hoarse and cracked, too, but from pleading. He expected Bokuto to continue, but he heard nothing but the passing cars. When he turned, Bokuto had buried his face into his hands, bent over and suffering. Akaashi wanted to touch him and hug him. For a moment, he forgot himself and pulled his hands away from his pockets to do that. But he caught himself. He didn’t get to play a good boyfriend anymore. 

He hoped, in time, he would become just a bad memory for Bokuto. Maybe years into the future, he would see him again in some crowded restaurant, and Bokuto wouldn’t recognize him. He’d sit with his back to him and Akaashi would overhear him talking about how awful his ex-boyfriend was, dumping him for no reason, what a bastard, he hated him, he was happy with his new life with his new lover.

“I’ve moved out my things,” Akaashi said, standing up with numb legs. “But I’ve paid the rent, and I’ll pay my share until you decide to get a new roommate. I left my forwarding address on the counter. If you need anything.” He couldn’t remember how he was going to finish his sentence. He left food in the refrigerator, too, packaged in plastic boxes. He hoped Bokuto would eat his vegetables. 

“Akaashi,” he heard Bokuto mumble behind him, “I’m sorry.” 

He walked out of the park, turning slightly at the gate. Bokuto had sat up, but he was still staring at the ground. His arms were clamped around his stomach like he was trying to hold himself together. Did he have a stomachache? Akaashi had left stomach medicine in the bathroom cabinet. Would Bokuto know to look there?

The walk to his new place was short. His classmate had been kind enough to rent him some space. It was even bigger and had a better view. He knew his classmate often stayed over at his girlfriend’s place, anyway, so he wasn’t surprised to see a dark and empty apartment. He didn’t bother turning on the lights, and dumped his bag on the floor. 

He nearly tripped over the flattened empty boxes from his move. Stubbing his toe hadn’t hurt, but he wish it had. He bent down to move the cardboard. It tore beneath his hands. He didn’t know when it started, but he was ripping it. He grabbed the edges and pulled it apart, destroying it, punching it, digging his nails into the corrugated sides and slicing through thin paper, soft jagged edges not enough. He kneeled on one side, pressing all his weight upon it, and dragged up the edge and heard the horrible quick sound of tearing. He sat in the mess of cardboard flurry, fingers throbbing. 

He had a dream when he slept that night. 

It was disjointed and misty. In dream logic, he knew this was a dying world. The snow looked beautiful and pristine on the trees, untouched by human hands. Something nestled in his palm, cold and round. It was a mirror. He could see himself, but his eyes swam with inky darkness. He had six wings behind him, but they weren’t wings. They were meaty appendages protruding from his back, the color of a painful bruise. 

In the dream, he thought, ah. That’s right. He had known all along.

He was a monster.


	5. are found

Akaashi wakes up. Light streams through his window. He last remembers his living room, but he’s wrapped up in his bedroom. His shoes neatly point to the door. Plates clatter outside and the television buzzes in static tones. He thinks he had a dream, but he can’t remember anything but a fading hum. Eventually, he rises. His wooden floor. The shadows of open doorways. Bokuto in the kitchen, sleeves rolled high.

“You sleep too much, Akaashi!” Bokuto points a spatula at him. “I’ve been waiting for a really long time.” 

“Did you sleep?” Akaashi loosens his rumpled collar. The television plays an old episode of Kamen Rider. Burnt pancakes tower over his dining table. 

“I got plenty of sleep,” Bokuto says, bags under his eyes. “Now go wash up and let’s eat. I made a thanks breakfast. It’s breakfast as a thank you.”

“The name is self-explanatory.” 

He washes his face in the bathroom. He feels heavy from sleeping, but the morning shines new clarity on the dark corners. He pats his face awake with a towel, and returns to the living room. Bokuto sits closest to the couch, watching the television with an enraptured expression. Akaashi bites into a pancake with a loud crunch, and regrets choosing to eat with such faith in Bokuto’s cooking.

“I like this episode,” Bokuto says. “Look! He’s going to transform.” 

“That’s a surprise.” Akaashi swallows the brittle pancake. “Well, you always did like hero stories.”

“I bet you watch them all the time, too. This time it’s about ghosts and stuff, so that’s deep.” Bokuto rested his chin on his fist. “Not that I think about that. It’s just cool when the hero saves the day.”

After breakfast, Bokuto would leave. That would be all. He would keep this morning as a distant and fond memory. But he thinks if he allows Bokuto to walk out the door, he will never see him again.

“You always expect the heroes to win in the end,” Bokuto says. “Anyway, I’ll leave after this episode. I’m sorry, Akaashi. I didn’t mean to mean to be a burden.” 

“You aren’t. You weren’t,” Akaashi says. Bokuto’s hand lingers over his untouched plate.

“I should go,” Bokuto says, shrugging. 

It would be easy to let him go. Akaashi would clean off the table and get dressed for work. At the next reunion, he can almost imagine Bokuto sitting and eating with their teammates. But he can imagine, even more vividly, the sharp ring of his phone in the depths of the night. They were sorry to inform him. Now, he can see Bokuto smiling at him, unaware of the poison. 

He can remember the gloves of last Christmas.

“Wait,” Akaashi says. “Go with me somewhere.” 

“Where?” Bokuto stops in the kitchen. 

“I don’t know. Somewhere. I’ll know it when I see it. But don’t go.” Akaashi knows he sounds ridiculous. He holds his breath, the tension bubbling within him like the pancake batter must have burbled. But Bokuto only grins. 

“Sure, Akaashi. Anything for you.” 

Akaashi thinks he smiles. He can’t be sure, staring at the full plate before him.

* * *

“The earlier-mentioned _Fukuro_ myth is one such example of a ‘continuous’ and evolving mythos. Earlier retellings focused on the ex nihilo creation, later expanding to stories depicting a reverential fear of the owl god. Over the course of the years, the religious rituals and behaviors atrophied and fell out of favor with modern culture. 

While the reverent association of owls and death faded into historical heritage, the commonplace association with owls and good eyesight rose into prominence. One such town still humorously invokes the god to aid them in searching for misplaced objects, earning the owl god the affection nickname, ‘the god of lost things.’”

\- _Religion and Rituals in Contemporary Culture_

* * *

Akaashi packs two backpacks, a moldy map, snacks, a first-aid kit, and emergency supplies into his backseat. He packs pillows and blankets into his trunk. He packs Bokuto into the passenger seat with a light blanket. Even before Akaashi pulls out from the garage, Bokuto nods off and wakes up in unhappy fits. Though Akaashi leaves his phone in the docket, Bokuto doesn’t ask why the GPS is turned off. 

They clear out of the city within the hour. Towering office buildings slump down into industrial factories, which give way to small country housing. The massive signboards twist into fields of waving grass. Mountains rise in the horizon and paint fades from the road. 

Akaashi does not know his destination. 

He’s fleeing, he knows vaguely. The rumble of the city has long since faded to the quiet of the winding mountain road. The ascent rises steadily, but the hairpin turns shake Bokuto awake every few minutes. He stares blearily out into the thick green foliage, but still does not question their direction. 

“This looks familiar,” Bokuto mumbles when they have climbed halfway up the mountain, high enough for Akaashi’s ears to pop when he swallows. 

“Our training camp was held in another direction.” Akaashi wonders if speaking about high school is taboo. But Bokuto grins at him, eyes half-closed.

“Oh, yeah. Maybe I was here in another life or something.” 

They crawl up a steeper curve. An old wooden sign creaks behind a thicket of trees, marking way to some temple. Akaashi steers the car upwards. Another life or something. The words echo in his head, worse than any commercial jingle. 

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” he finally asks. He thinks the hum of the car has overtaken his voice. Bokuto stares out the window, listless and tired.

“Not really,” Bokuto finally says, the silence stretched out so long that the question had almost been forgotten. “But I guess I do. I don’t, but I do, you know?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Bokuto twists his head in thought. “I just think reincarnation is hard to explain. Like, why are there so many people born? Where do the souls go? Is it really the same if you don’t live the same life? I don’t get it. So—I don’t.”

“That makes sense,” Akaashi says softly. Bokuto twists his mouth, discontent with his answer. The light floods across the blanket in his lap.

“But—I believe in second chances. I mess up a lot, but sometimes, if I try, I get a second chance. You can always try, you know? Wait, don’t get me wrong, I get that you only play high school volleyball for three years. You don’t win without doing everything you can. But there’s university volleyball. Neighborhood associations. Going pro. I mean, it’s not the same, but you still get to demand to do it one more time. It’s not the same form, but it’s still enough of the same. It’s—like love, you know? Sometimes it comes back, just in a different form. But it’s there. It goes back.”

“Have you thought about this a lot?” A pang of a distant emotion resounds in Akaashi’s chest. He grips the steering wheel even tighter. 

“Nope! But I sound smart, right?” Bokuto watches the mountains slowly drain past them, the slopes rising, falling, rising. “I think if reincarnation does exist, it’s not a do-over. But if it does exist, it’s like… a third chance. It’s trying again. It’s understanding if you want a second chance, you gotta fight with everything you got.”

“That’s a nicer way of thinking about it.” 

“What about you? Do you believe?”

Akaashi thinks about vague, flickering dreams. Bokuto in a field of sunflowers, laughing with his arms held out. Bokuto sitting in a park, eyebrows furrowed over an open can. Bokuto sharpening a sword, careful and focused. A line of a thousand graves. Memories that weren’t his, and memories he could not recall. 

Bokuto sitting at the head of a crowded table, dressed in ornamental robes, looking lively and happy when he whispered something to him.

“I don’t know,” Akaashi says. 

The long talk must have tired Bokuto, because he nods with his eyes closed. Even the sharp curves no longer wake him. The car trundles down the mountain to a flat stretch of road, light penetrating through the trees. 

Sometimes Bokuto looks healthy. Sometimes, in a trick of the light, he looks sunken and tired. Akaashi will not think about it. 

They reach a fork in the road. Weathered blue signboards point in both directions, small white lettering scratched out with unknown names. From Akaashi’s perspective, both pathways lead outwards to dark green shrubbery. 

“Bokuto-san,” he says softly. He wants to confer, but Bokuto mumbles in his sleep and works his worried fingers over the threadbare blanket. On the long stretch of empty road, Akaashi slows the car down to a reluctant trundle. 

This isn’t like him, he thinks, with an edge of hysteria. These roads can swallow him whole. He could drive for kilometers and still wind around the mountain, frantically searching for something he doesn’t know. 

In the end, he stops the car to the side and the sudden silence fills his bones. A brisk wind startles him when he climbs out onto the gravel. He runs his finger over the teeth of his keys. 

The sky has split the mountains above him, a murky gray of a valley. Through the thicket of trees, redwoods tower over the forest. 

He has a map. He has a phone, and he knows the route back to his safe apartment and his stiff office. If he returns, he can work by the next morning. He knows where the papers should be shuffled and filed. The television show, he has taped. A few flyers stick out from his mailbox for supermarket sales. He knows this. But still.

Bokuto shifts his weight in his sleep, mouth slightly open like he was panting for air. It reminds Akaashi a little—just a little—of the nights in their apartment. He would turn over on his side and listen to Bokuto breathe beside him.

They should take the path to the right, Akaashi decides abruptly, and climbs back into the shielded car. He has no substantial reason for choosing the right instead the left. He just decides, like something old inside him has pressed a hand across a door. Not enough to open it, but enough to let in a crack of shining light. 

The car starts again and takes the road deeper into the cluster of redwoods.

* * *

“The earliest text discovered for ‘dual reincarnation’ was found in Owl Valley. The passage locates reincarnation as a solely human process, alluding to a different cycle for animals. As expected, innocent souls reincarnate repeatedly, working on holy doctrines throughout their lives in order to attain enlightenment. However, sinned souls were also said to be reincarnated. They were destined to suffer and decay throughout their lives, ultimately dissolving into a universal nothingness. The latter arc has been incorrectly referred to as a “cursed cycle,” though a more accurate translation calls it a “fatalistic cycle,” which references the text’s firm stance on the soul’s inevitable and inescapable journey.” 

\- _Life After Life: Studies in Reincarnation_

“Smith states a god’s soul “temporarily presides in a physical vessel, but remains eternal throughout generations, transcending time and space as an anthropomorphist cultural ideal” (1991: 54). This “cultural ideal” can be rapidly transformative. While tracing the earlier folktales of the Fukuro mythology, the god’s personality remains consistently fearsome and playful. Later tales also exhibited good deeds, but the mischief is replaced with references to a weeping god in the forest. The biologists-inclined speculated owls with a particularly ‘weepy’ call migrated to the forest at this time, but others theorized that the increase of market activity brought new mythology into the area and combined tales of similar morphology.”

\- _Studying Cultural Needs Through Mythology_

“ **Q: Where did you find the inspiration for your song?**  
A: I wrote this song based on my favorite poem from this guy who lived ye olde ages ago. It was carved below this weird statue with wings and antlers and everything. This poem just really stuck with me. It seemed really sad.

‘Were you so unloved  
That nobody could find you?’”

\- **Q &A with Pop Stars!**

* * *

It rains in the afternoon. 

“I want some snacks,” Bokuto says, staring at the convenience store. 

“We need to find a place to stay for the night.” Akaashi scrolls down a list on his phone. The droplets roll off his clear umbrella, splattering to the oil slick streets. He’s comforted by the crowded streets, a return to intermediate buildings and flapping damp banners. In the morning grayness, the lighted signs resemble slices of the moon. 

The combini store doors hiss open. Akaashi bites back a sigh, turning to follow Bokuto into the store. He had told him, again and again, that they needed to focus on the task. But Bokuto wanders to the bagged chips, bouncing on his heels. His back seems to have grown stronger, bigger, in the time Akaashi hadn’t seen him. Akaashi clenches his fingers to his palm. 

“These chips,” Bokuto whispers, “are so spicy, they always make me cry.” He regards them solemnly, and grabs three off the shelf. 

When Akaashi brings the assorted snacks to the counter, he idly eyes a poster for a new anime. Owlings! it reads, and the characters are round lines and big eyes. 

“The manga artist was born in this city,” the clerk says, catching Akaashi’s gaze, “so it’s a bit of a local pride. The manga is based off some regional stories.”

“Really,” Akaashi murmurs. “Like what?” 

“Mostly stories that kids tell themselves. Things like an owl doing a good deed for a child’s payment in toys, or an owl inviting himself to a party, but his singing makes everyone dance. Oh, like an owl forgetting to fly and getting stuck in a tree. I think they were called silly owl stories.” The clerk ticks off the stories off her fingers. “They were very fun. Everybody is excited for the anime here.” 

“I look forward to watching it,” Akaashi says. The main character beams from the poster while a cloaked figure lurked behind him. 

Akaashi accepts his change and exits the store, where Bokuto waits underneath the hanging. Bokuto idly spins a toy ball around his hands. 

“Where’s your umbrella?” Akaashi asks, shifting the plastic bag to the crook of his elbow. 

“Lost it.” Bokuto shrugs. 

“Where’d you get the ball?” 

“Found it.” 

“Really.” 

“Yeah.” Bokuto guiltily tucks the ball away in his pocket. “But you’ll share your umbrella, right?”

Akaashi extends the umbrella to cover his head. 

The rain hasn’t deterred the city from rumbling through the streets. A white van passes by, still splashing at the shallow puddles. The letterings of the unlit signs arise into view when they approach. Ahead, the apartment buildings with jutting tiled balconies curve away to unknown streets. Akaashi checks his phone again for directions. 

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto mumbles. Akaashi fumbles to hold the umbrella with his chin while he zooms into the map.

“What?” he asks distractedly, his wet fingers smearing across the screen. 

“I just wanted to see you again at the party. I didn’t think you’d have to do all this.” Bokuto shrugs, a heave of his shoulders. “But, Akaashi, if you do all this, I’m gonna think—things. Can I do that? Can I hope for—something?” 

They walk past the department stores, nearing the smaller shops and restaurants. Despite the thin rain, the red banners of the food stalls alight like fire. A row of men in business suits sit together in a booth, laughing and cajoling with their shirts unbunched and ties loosened. Akaashi finds the inn, flanked by leafy fronds of houseplants. 

“You’ve always been so quiet, Akaashi.” Bokuto sounds tired, but Akaashi does not look up from the inn doors. “I hope one day, I can hear what you’re saying.” 

They eat at a nearby restaurant, the roof slumbering so low that even Akaashi bends his head to find a seat. A weathered painting of an owl squeezes beside two posters advertising for a two-for-the-price-of-one deal, hot hot hot, going on now. Akaashi orders two bowls of noodles, and Bokuto orders one for himself. 

“So,” Bokuto says, leaning on his elbows, “What have you been up to?” 

It’s surprisingly easy to cover the last years of his life in a few sentences. He elaborates more on his daily life, and it’s easy. He’s forgotten the comfort of talking to Bokuto, who laughs at his jokes and asks interesting questions. Bokuto spirals off into ridiculous tangents. He tells a short, wandering anecdote about a teammate who, oh first, listen to this, his teammate with the jacket, customized his jacket, and Bokuto couldn’t believe it, and he wanted to do that, too. 

In this city where he knows no one’s name, sitting close enough to touch Bokuto’s knees, he finds comfort. Bokuto grins. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” Bokuto asks tentatively. 

“No,” Akaashi says, and adds, “I have in the past.” He doesn’t say this to hurt Bokuto, but he wonders if he had considered the way Bokuto flinches, almost imperceptibly, sinking into the faded cushions of their seats. Akaashi has taken a second too long, and his statement coils out like an intentional whip rather than an off-handed statement. He clenches his fingers around his wooden chopsticks, almost hoping a splinter would slice into his finger. 

“I have, too,” Bokuto says. “It never really got serious, but I dated tons of people.” 

“Really.” Akaashi blinks at the softness of his tone, the kindness wafting like the steam from the bowls. 

“Yeah, really. Never really worked out, though.” Bokuto frowns. “Same with you?” 

“More or less.” Akaashi tucks a leafy green back into his noodles. “They were serious enough. But I wondered why they didn’t smell like you.” 

He blames the drunken laughter from the adjacent table, a raucous force that lowers his inhibitions. This private and strange memory from his past relationships had burned, unformed, in his heart. Now Bokuto stares at him, mouth opening, possibly in hope. Akaashi jerks himself out of his seat, tossing his neat napkin onto the table.

“Bathroom,” he says, and steps away. 

The rain does not ebb when they leave the restaurant. The pitter patter of the rain drips off the rim of the umbrella, and Bokuto hunches closer to him. The ends of his hair curl against the nape of his neck, softer in the weather. He smells nice. Clean, like soap, but warm. Akaashi has missed the smell that had lingered so long in the blankets, stored from mornings in a cramped apartment while staring at the shadows on the ceiling. 

Bokuto coughs sharply into his hand. 

“Are you all right?” Akaashi stops on the sidewalk, hand on the back of Bokuto’s jacket. 

“I’m fine,” Bokuto says, pulling away with a sloppy grin. He walks away into a shallow puddle, and Akaashi quickens his step to keep the umbrella hovering above. It was almost funny in high school when Bokuto would say he was fine, the lie obvious on his face. Now, Akaashi strains his view in the dim lamp light, trying to see what Bokuto clenches in his fist. 

At the inn, Bokuto sleeps first. He’s a heavy sleeper, snoring even when the lights stay on. Akaashi parts his laptop, not sure what he wants to find. He settles for drawing up a forum page about the Owling! anime, most of the net users reminiscing about their childhood games with the folk tale. Akaashi restrains a smile at the silly owl escapades. 

Some talk about the companion, a friend of the owl. Some say he was the best friend, others say he was the traitor. The friend killed the hero, they say, out of greed for his power. Or, the hero grew corrupt and the friend killed him to save the world. Things like that. Things that didn’t matter. Akaashi reads with a hand under his chin, only stepping away from the laptop to tuck the blanket around Bokuto’s shoulders. Akaashi does not want to sleep that night. 

He is afraid of dreaming.

* * *

“The game is played much like tag—one child is designated ‘the owl.’ If the owl touches another child, they become an ‘owl guardian’ and help transform the other children. The first to transform is designated ‘the friend.’ Another child is designated ‘the traitor’ and can turn the owl guardians back to human upon a light touch, though the traitor cannot transform the owl or the friend.” 

- _Historic Childhood Games_

“So the little owl promised his mother that he would not stray from the path. And in the forest, he gathered the mud of the ground, the water of the river, and plucked a feather from his back. On the first night, he shaped the mud. On the second night, he poured the water. But on the third night, the little owl slept until the first light of morning. Fearing his mother’s wrath, he added three feathers, and created his little friend.”

\- _Various Folktales: A Collection_

“It is said the wise imperial adviser disliked the story of the owl’s friend and banned the tale from the inner chambers. The story refers to an owl who creates a friend from sacred earth and purified water, but forgets to add the feather from his wing. The adviser wrote, ‘For what use is a being / without any heart?’”

\- _Tales of the Emperor’s Son_

* * *

“It’s cold.” Akaashi inches on the border of a small village, car heater running high. “We won’t stop for ice cream.” 

“My last boyfriend would have stopped for ice cream,” Bokuto says. 

“I’m not jealous of your last boyfriend.”

“You should be! He said I was cool. At first.” Bokuto ticks off the compliments. “And I was handsome! At first. And that I was good at volleyball. He didn’t take that back.”

“We can stop,” Akaashi finally says, “for something warm.” 

Bokuto buys two popsicles, snapping them smartly in half. Akaashi reluctantly sucks at the end, and Bokuto wanders down the streets. The small village has an older architecture, wooden houses jumbled with metal slats and neighborhood houses huddled together. Houseplants decorate the narrow streets space between the leaning bicycles. Old rust runs down roofs and walls. A fishing village, he thinks. A dock stretches into the green sea, the smell of salt and heavy water rolling with the gentle lulls of the boats. 

He thinks he likes the green of the sea. The gray clouds, hanging low like mist on the mountains, turn the water into a deeper emerald. It is like the sea is dreaming. 

Stone owl statues sit outside doors. Some have old moss growing on the wings and others have chipped and faded over the years. Akaashi finds this curious. When Bokuto runs off to explore the nearby park, Akaashi ducks into a small exhibit. A museum, most likely, but the door leads to a single room with paintings and statues, and the man sitting at the desk does not ask for admission. 

“This is part of the city hall building to showcase our historic standings,” the man explains. “Please feel free to ask any questions.” Akaashi politely admires the old pictures of people on yellowing photographs, framed in gilded gold. He stops at an older painting, carefully nestled away from where the sun would shine from the doors. 

“The owls,” Akaashi murmurs, almost to himself. The man stands beside him.

“A local legend. They say our town is founded on where a feather landed from one of the god’s many wings. He is the protector of this town and represents wisdom.” The man smiles. “When the exam season comes around, you can see many of those charms hanging from bikes.” 

“Is that why there are so many owl statues?” 

“For some people. This is a bit of a town attraction, though, so they might be the cheapest door stop.” The man laughs, and Akaashi smiles distractedly. 

The figure in the painting has dark eyes and eight wings, and holds a mirror in his right hand. Behind him, a gray ghostly figure lurks in the background with yellow eyes and a wicked snarl. The heavy brush strokes convey the menace through the aged parchment. 

“What’s behind him?” Akaashi asks, indicating the gray figure. 

“A sort of demon figure, a ghost. They say that ghost could only be seen through a special mirror and the god has always tried to hunt it down.”

“Was he successful?” 

“Of course.”

The gray skies brim over the sea. Akaashi retraces his steps back to the park. Bokuto sits on a bench, half-scowling. One of his moods, then, and the same strange relief surges through him. That he knew Bokuto so well. But he sits beside him and does not touch him because he lost the right to comfort him. He clasps his cold hands together. 

“You’re not going to ask me what’s wrong?” Bokuto peeks at him.

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bokuto tightens his coat around his stomach. 

“Is something wrong?” Akaashi asks without thinking, and frowns slightly to himself. Bokuto laughs, the flicker of pain disappearing into a bright grin. 

“You always take care of people. It’s pretty nice.” 

“Are you cold? You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Akaashi unties his scarf, warmth tingling in the wool, but he doesn’t think Bokuto shivers from the cold. His condition worsens. 

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Bokuto mumbles, still accepting the scarf. His fingers shake when he wraps a clumsy knot to the side. 

“But—” Akaashi stops himself haltingly. The trickle of days driving down mountain roads, Bokuto sleeping in the passenger seat, had imbued him with arrogance. He couldn’t do this. His legs ached from the cramped seats of the car and salt from the sea stung his eyes. 

“I did okay without you.” Bokuto kneads his fingers over his stomach. “I did a lot of great stuff. I dated other people. I have friends.” 

“I know,” Akaashi says. The trees tremble from the wind, and Akaashi tries to exhale. 

“But it was lonely and it hurt. And I’m sorry, Akaashi, okay?” Bokuto faced him with eyes of ferocious guilt. “I’m not trying to get you to do something, I’m fine, I’m okay, but it hurts, a little. I’m not great at thinking, like you. So I don’t know if I did something wrong, or maybe that’s not it, maybe I just wasn’t enough—”

“No,” Akaashi says, like a desperate croak. “I told you, it’s not your fault.” He thought he had told him that, the only thing that mattered. But Bokuto frowns, shakes his head. 

“I don’t need you to forgive me for whatever, but sometimes I see you looking at me and it looks like you want something from me. If it’s something I can give you”—Bokuto’s hand clenches over his ribs, and for a dizzying moment, Akaashi worries his hand would sink into himself like a void, but it stays hovered over the hastily bought coat—“then, it doesn’t have to have a name, or place, or a time, just let me try.” 

“I don’t know,” Akaashi says, tall back and strict lines. The boats rock against the water. 

“You can think of it like you’re taking care of me.” Bokuto lowers his voice, a conspirator with a secret. The mist rolls down the mountains in thick clouds. Akaashi wishes he was that big, too. 

“Will that make you feel better?” he asks, almost to himself, but Bokuto leans forward.

“Yes,” he whispers. 

Akaashi thinks it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong to stretch out his hand over his knee, but he’s weak and Bokuto has always been convincing. His small motion is enough. Bokuto grips his cold hand, still with some remnants of shakiness. The rudders creak and Bokuto grins, bright and easy, and Akaashi thinks it’s been a long while since he had seen the sunlight. 

“It’s okay. We can focus on the now,” Bokuto says, cheerful with a thin edge of fragility. He wraps his fingers around Akaashi’s hand. 

Akaashi thinks, with a cold sensation to his stomach, that Bokuto believes he would die very soon.

“So, can we—?” Bokuto grins like the sudden ray of morning sunlight. He has only drawn back enough to give them space to breathe, still huddled close to Akaashi’s knees. 

“This isn’t—”

“I know. Not a thing. But just, you know. Something to hold.” Bokuto shrugs, light and helpless. 

“If we do this,” Akaashi tells his hands, “then you can’t lie to me. You’ll tell me if it hurts.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, anything,” and Bokuto answers so quickly, Akaashi almost flinches. 

“Does it hurt?” he tries to command. He could almost pretend he’s hurting Bokuto for Bokuto’s sake, and not from a flimsy neediness to touch him again. He has missed his warmth, the simple and straightforward grins. Akaashi tries to be strict, granite. He is the owl statue by the door. 

“A little.” Bokuto grimaces, a guilty expression haunting his bright eyes. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell how much it hurts, so I’m not lying. It just feels like it’s been hurting for a thousand years. Is that good enough?” 

Akaashi nods, trying not to think about the repercussions. Bokuto laughs, loud and cheerful, and collapses into him and kisses him tentatively, mouth tasting sweet like the popsicles. Granite, Akaashi reminds himself. A statue by the door, cheaply bought. But he feels himself folding. When he slips and kisses him back, he feels relief and despair. He imagines the brush painting on the wall of the exhibit, the thin lines swirling into fraying ends. The god, clad in dark robes, had held the mirror, ignorant of the ghost swirling behind him. His wings had draped around him and he had been elegant and terrifying and sad, and Akaashi thinks he can understand.

* * *

“[Religious paintings] occupied a space between the sacred veneration of the god and the profane blood spilled during the ongoing battles. The tension is best depicted in “The God’s Sorrow,” a painting by an unknown artist, which shows the famous tale of the owl god and the ghost. Yet the artwork refrains from elaborating upon the bloodshed when the owl god slew the ghost. It instead focused on the horrifying presence of the ghost lurking behind the god, capturing the fear of the times. The painting presents a tension-filled paradox. The god holds the mirror with its face to the front, as if refusing to look upon his own visage—though if he had, he might have seen the ghost behind him…”

\- _God in the Paint_

“ **Great Historic Find From Missing Tourist**

A lost tourist has caught historians’ attention by bringing back a mirror. After three days of wandering, the tourist found his way back to the camp with a mirror in his hand. Historians speculate this mirror could be the ‘ghost mirror,’ a speculative relic based on the myth of the owl god and the ghost. 

‘It is too early to confirm,’ said one professor at the local university, ‘but the winged insignias surrounding the mirror are promising.’ 

However, the official statement released describes the symbolic wings as resembling a crow, rather than an owl.’”

“ **Temari**  
_Cloth ball, silk core_  
   
This children’s toy was thought to have been created for a sick child from a wealthy family. The even embroidery reveals a steady and calm hand. The bright patterns are unusually inclined to symbols of good health and prosperity, showing the crafter’s loyalty and friendship towards the family.”

\- _Placard from the Museum of Children’s Toys_

* * *

They have a short dinner at a local café. Bokuto grins and talks happily, a feverish flush across his face. He barely takes a bite out of his meal. 

“You should eat,” Akaashi says. 

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, and doesn’t eat. He clasps Akaashi’s hand underneath the seat, hidden from the wandering stray customers. Stemming from a worry, Akaashi thinks distantly, that he might recant his decision to stay with him. Akaashi vigilantly tries not to enjoy the warmth. In the corner, an old television reports a storm warning. The rain rises in intensity, drumming against the windows. 

“Keep warm,” Akaashi says. 

“Of course,” Bokuto says, his hand cold. 

Their inn room is small, but warm. Akaashi showers first, and dries his hair with a cotton towel. A thin blue robe has been provided. When he enters their main room, the lights have been dimmed. Bokuto crosses his arms underneath his pillow on the bed. 

The clouds rumble with an oncoming storm.

“I wonder if it’s raining back home,” Bokuto says. The rain comes down fast enough to sound like static. 

“We have internet. You can look it up.”

“Oh.” Bokuto blinks, dumbfounded. Akaashi sits on the bed near his hip, the mattress bending to his weight. 

“Do you want to go home?” Akaashi asks. 

“I like being here with you.”

“I can’t promise you anything about us in the future.” Akaashi hopes he could be heard over the rushing rain. Bokuto does not react at first, and then turns to look at him. He always did have an emotive face. His smile is exuberant, but constrained. 

“I’m not worried about the future that much. Or the past.” When Bokuto shrugs, the shadows of his muscles ripple along his back. “This is fine.” 

“Don’t say that,” Akaashi says. “I’ll take care of you. You said I could.” He hadn’t sounded so petulant since he was a child, a soft unhappy lilt at the end of his reserved words. He twists his hands together. Two fingers, hooked into his other hand, turns into three, then he steeples them, and then weaves them together, and strokes his thumb, and Bokuto touches his hand to stop him. 

Bokuto’s hand trickles downwards to his thigh, slipping underneath the robe to stroke the sensitive skin. Akaashi’s breath hitches. The storm rumbles. The bed creaks when Bokuto sits up and kisses him roughly. It’s not hurried, but still powerful, pressed against his mouth. Hot, like something burns him from the inside. Like loneliness. Like hurt. Akaashi kisses him back. 

Bokuto grabs his hips. The robe has become untied, cloth moving like a whisper when it falls to the bed. When the lightning flashes, Bokuto’s eyes glow a hungry gold. He mouths along Akaashi’s thigh, mouth warm. His fingers tread over Akaashi’s hip bones, travelling to his stomach, forefingers a murmur along his sides. Bokuto touches him with fragility and desperation, daring to sweep his thumb along his stomach, but fingers still curled with his knuckles touching over his ribs. Bokuto kisses him hard on the softer inside of the thigh, but strokes his leg comfortingly at every sharp inhale. 

An exploration, Akaashi thinks faintly, of a land once known. 

He remembers Bokuto’s mouth, his hair, his smell. The way his palms felt calloused, the way he touched him adoringly. Crammed close on their shared bed, Akaashi would jam his elbow against the wall and pull him close, the wonder of entangled limbs and heavy hugs. And he had known every millimeter of Bokuto’s body, hard muscles and soft spots that made Bokuto’s face grow red and desperate, heaving pants and loud moans. And sometimes Bokuto would laugh into the crook of his neck and Akaashi would smile, small and lazy, and bring his hand to his sweaty back and pull him closer underneath old blankets. 

It was familiar enough to be different. Akaashi closed his eyes, feeling Bokuto’s hands brush over the slopes of his abs, the swell of his nipples, the crevasse of his sternum, the cliffs of his clavicle, the mountainous lump in his throat, the plains of his cheek, the cove of his lips. He reaches out blindly, unwilling to tremble, and finds a loose grasp of cascading hair. Bokuto’s hands hesitate. Akaashi can feel hot breath skimming over the inside veins of his wrist, and does not try to remember the look of lust and hope. It feels like Bokuto is comforting him.

When Bokuto finally takes him into his mouth, Akaashi opens his eyes in relief. He gasps for sweltering warm air. It’s familiar, but more careful, fearful, desperate. The rain must be crashing into the sea, stirring up frothing waves and shards of green. Bokuto’s tongue slides, hot and heavy, down the underside of his shaft, like he used to do when they still had classes in the early morning and Akaashi would murmur for him to hurry, the pent-up need filling up his stomach. Akaashi grabs and yanks Bokuto’s hair, and shivers when Bokuto groans low around his cock. The boats, anchored to the dock, must fling and rock at every cascade. 

He burns where Bokuto once touched him. 

The rain, unseen, batters the windows and the wind shakes the frames. All the heat curls inside him, coiled and tense. Bokuto’s mouth is hot and tight and silky, and he has always known this. A fluttery raw edge lines Bokuto’s shallow breaths, but then he’s slipping his tongue over the sensitive head and Akaashi jolts against the distant bed and the clouds rumble above them, like ice slowly cracking, shifting, and when the lightning floods the room in clean white light, Bokuto still watches him, mouth sloppy and wet, hand squeezing the base of his cock. Akaashi is almost painfully aroused, forcefully stilling his hips from grinding into Bokuto’s mouth. He gulps down breaths desperately, and the thunder moans inside him. 

Like an unknown rhythm, an unseen cycle, he tenses and gasps and Bokuto swirls his tongue to a sweet spot, sucking hard, and Akaashi comes in his mouth and the sea does not stop spilling onto land and the rain does not stop battering the walls and the storm does not pass, but he’s panting, hot and sweaty, still. Another sudden shock of lightning and he can see Bokuto, sitting up on his elbows. His mouth parts, the sticky come almost glimmering against his tongue. The light is gone in a second. The darkness of the storm washes over them again. 

The bed bends where Bokuto pulls closer to him, his nose brushing against Akaashi’s neck. The sound of pants rustling, and Bokuto grunts, pulling himself out of his pants, and the rain patters down like small footsteps. A few quick strokes and that’s it, and Akaashi wants to bury himself under the blankets because it’s not cold in the room, but he wants to be so scalding hot that he would never forget. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whispers, fingers ghosting over his chin. Akaashi wonders if he will kiss him, but Bokuto only closes his eyes and leans heavy on him. A painful hitch follows his labored breathing. 

“Sometimes,” Bokuto says, soft in the storm, “I dream. A recurring dream, I guess. It started in high school. I’m somewhere. Not here. And I can’t see where I’m going, but I feel like I’ve been walking for years and years and I’m tired, but not the good tired, when you play a match or something. Just really tired. I want to lie down. I want to rest.” 

Akaashi closes his eyes. 

“Lately, I think I can finally see the end.” Bokuto’s voice scrapes over the too-warm air. “In the dream, I’m scared, and I don’t think it’s somewhere that I was supposed to go. I’m really sad. But I’m so tired. It hurts so much. I think—finally. You know? Finally.”

Later, he hears Bokuto stir, removing himself from the bed and walking to the bathroom. Akaashi opens his eyes to the blank ceiling above them. An impartial vent opens near an alarm. The vague scent of salt clings to the laundered sheets. Akaashi finally sits up, ties the robe around him, feels his cock still damp against his thighs. His muscles ache. 

The thin rays of light break from beneath the bathroom door. The toilet flushes, and flushes again, and Akaashi pushes open the door. Bokuto sits on the tiled floor, sweaty and pale under the florescent lights. Akaashi wets a cotton towel with warm water. When he kneels on the floor, the grooves bite into his knees. He wipes Bokuto’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto says. 

Akaashi washes the towel in the sink, scrubbing until his hands are flushed with anger.

* * *

“When the moon was still too young to wander the skies, there was an owl god. He created this world from a dream. He was strong, strong enough to hold the world on his shoulders. His tears could fill up an ocean. His tantrums would shake the forests. His laughter would rock through the mountains. His guardian beside him would counsel him, but the owl god was fickle. Sometimes he would take to the skies for years, and sometimes he would swoop down and eat all the sorrows of the world, swallowing them into his stomach. They say he flies, even now.”

“Once upon a time, there was an owl god. He had an advisor who would one day betray him, and kill him. But in the sacred time before that, they would take to the skies. They say seeing the eyes of an owl will bring upon fortune. The golden eyes of an owl would promise prosperity, and the sorrowful eyes of the traitor would promise a long life.”

“A long time ago, there was an owl god and his friend.”

* * *

Bokuto asks the same question twice. When he sits in the car, he slumps over onto the window. His hands curl protectively over his stomach. Akaashi wakes him up to drink some water, and he seems confused and groggy even while sipping a pathetically small amount. His eyes are unfocused and dull. When he tries to tie the scarf around his neck, he fails at the first knot and it unravels, strands almost floating across his shoulder. 

“You need to eat,” Akaashi says. 

“What?” 

“We need to eat.” Akaashi drives past an old billboard, a peeling behemoth of faded hands. “What would you like to have for lunch?”

“Oh.” Bokuto closes his eyes, and does not open them for the rest of the winding road. The vast farmlands and curved greenhouses taper into a small town. All the houses are wide and sit behind low stone walls. People bike down the cobbled streets. A low mist rolls beyond the curved eaves and flat verandas, creeping down the evergreens and pooling in the purpling lake. The sky is gray, but it does not rain. 

He parks in a sandlot without drawn lines and a chilly gust blows into the car when he opens the door. Bokuto shivers. 

In the mist, pedestrians resembled shadows. They flickered beyond the thick bushes, slipping into wooden mansions, walking out of painted temples. Bokuto walks on his own, though Akaashi occasionally touches his shoulder under the guise of steadying him. 

“We’ll have soba,” he says. “You liked having that, didn’t you? On our dates. Though we can go anywhere else. If you want anything else. Anything you want.” 

When Bokuto breathes, steam tumbles from his mouth. 

In Tokyo, the restaurants cram together and fight for space, paper lanterns bobbing in the strict alleys. When Akaashi enters this restaurant, the door slides quiet behind him and the empty wooden tables line up in calm rows beside slabs of menus. Bokuto sits down peacefully, and Akaashi removes the scarf, unbuttons the coat, until Bokuto looks more relaxed. 

“I’m not that hungry,” Bokuto says apologetically. His eyes are glossy, but Akaashi relaxes his shoulders at the slight focus. 

“That’s fine. But please eat. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.” 

“Oh.” 

Bokuto orders a small bowl and eats the strands unconvincingly. They drape over his chopsticks and fall back onto the pile. He chews mechanically. Akaashi excuses himself for the bathroom and asks the person in the hallway for directions to the closest hospital. His hands shake when he returns to the table, though Bokuto doesn’t notice. 

He wonders what would happen at the hospital. If he would pass Bokuto over to a doctor and never see him again, except maybe in a blank room, polite murmurs, a wooden casket. Akaashi grips his knees. 

“It’s okay,” Bokuto murmurs, offering half a smile. “I’m eating, see? It’ll be okay, Akaashi.” 

Akaashi leaves Bokuto in the car and walks around for the nearest inn. The mist presses a wet blanket over his nose and mouth. A faint shimmering trail leads to a snail, belabored, crawling across the heavy gray stones. Deeper still, he sees the houses hide in the trees on the mountains, and the mountains fade away like ink blots against the seeping clouds. He finds a small bulletin board beside an antiquated bus station, the metal sign weathered and dented. There is a map, spread out in green lands and white roads. 

Akaashi almost laughs. 

He had avoided looking at his phone or GPS, but the map makes it apparent that he’d been driving in a slow, sloping circle. He presses his fingers against the cold glass, the condensation beading in the corners of the board. This is where he is taking Bokuto. Back home, back to nowhere, back to nothing. 

All the light falls soft upon him. He tears himself away and finds an inn. Brisk, matter-of-fact, reasonable. He ignores the gnawing feeling inside his stomach. 

When he returns to his car, the passenger side door has been flung open. Bokuto kneels near the bushes, panting heavily with his hand over his mouth. When he spots Akaashi, his eyes widen with guilt. 

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto mutters. 

“It’s not your fault,” Akaashi says. He helps him up and brings him to the inn, which is even older and smells like wet wood, cloying and peeling. The beds are larger and the desk neater. He brings Bokuto another bottle of water. Most of it trickles out of his mouth. 

“You should swallow.” Akaashi sits beside him on the chair. 

“It’s gonna come up again.” But Bokuto obediently tries to swallow the second gulp, shuddering and wincing when the water goes down. Akaashi does not worry. That’s what he tells himself, sitting in a sterile room and watching Bokuto drown on bottled water. 

While Bokuto rests in the bed, breathing heavy and hands clutching at the sheets, Akaashi separates himself to find dinner. He is weary. In the misty night, the moon hangs like a low and drying fruit. The bulky cylinder of a grain storehouse blocks the stars. People meander by him, though not with the hurried and brisk steps of the city. A couple take a night walk, arms hooked within each other. An elderly man wraps a leash around his hands, and the dog paces beside him. No distant honks, no oil smog, no lights from neon signs, no department stores full of perfectly posed mannequins. This neither pleases him nor disturbs him. He simply aches for something he does not know. 

Akaashi eats broth at a restaurant. A different restaurant, a different name. Carrots, onions, boiled chicken. The voices beside him never rise beyond a pleasant chatter. He raises his spoon to his mouth and eats. When he pays, the owl statue by the cash register peers up at him.

He returns to the inn, key clanking clumsily on the doorknob. A stiff wind rushes to his face. The wooden shutters of the window have been parted, though the lights were still off. Bokuto sits on a chair by the window, leaning out with his forearms crossed. 

“What are you doing?” Akaashi crosses the room in quick steps, grabbing the edge of the shutter. 

“Wait, wait! I wanted to see.” Bokuto drops his chin on his arms. 

“You’ll catch a cold.” 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, almost laughing. “I don’t think that’s the problem.” 

“Please,” Akaashi says. But he relents, grabbing a coat from their backpack and stuffing it over Bokuto’s shoulders. Bokuto seems better, but Akaashi has heard of this, too, when patients get better before they get worse. 

“Maybe I had relatives here,” Bokuto says. “I remember this place.” 

“Is that so.”

“Over there, they sold toys.” Bokuto points across the tiled roofs, each a large umbrella over the wooden houses. “Let’s go there tomorrow, Akaashi. Oh, and there—ramen, wasn’t it? There, they used to sell swords and knives. They were amazing. Really sharp. And there, they taught koto lessons, didn’t they? I remember hearing their songs.” 

“Swords,” Akaashi repeats. The night is dim. Older lamp posts cast orange lights over the pocked walls and glossy bushes. But he can almost see where Bokuto’s fingers brush over the rocks, turning paved and cracked roads into dirt. A child laughs, followed by quick footsteps, but Akaashi cannot see anybody in the street below. 

“There was a bridge over there. They bought and sold fish. They’d take them all, load them into carts, and you’d hear them coming. And from above, the houses were so small, the river like a string.” Bokuto grins. “This was a good place, Akaashi. Remember?”

“I’ve never been here.” 

Bokuto blinks. “Oh. Right.” 

But Akaashi can almost see the walls melding and twisting into a labyrinth, a different place. The people would have taken different steps. He assumed, but he did not remember. 

“I liked this place,” Bokuto says. “It used to be a village. A long, long time ago. They were all slaughtered. I thought there was nothing left, but I found something. Something so good, Akaashi. You would know. You would know if you saw.” 

“But you couldn’t have seen.” Akaashi’s heart beats in his chest like a tremor. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto murmurs. “Isn’t this a good place now? Isn’t this what we’ve done?”

Bokuto speaks with pride, eyes shining, a moment of sheer clarity. Akaashi stares out across the town. Burnt remains to bustling village to what it was now, quiet paved streets and round mirrors on corners and tea shops with criss-crossing chairs and tables and local stores with televisions playing news channels and children sitting on the park to play with their handheld games and drying herbs hanging in long ropes in broad houses and life, beautiful. 

That night, Akaashi finally sleeps long enough to dream. 

He sees through eyes not his own. His hands feel smaller, the line of his eyes slightly taller, things only he would know. He sees the burnt village. The ashes of the wooden pillar crumble with every footstep. Death, destruction, despair. Something stirs. The eyes turn and Akaashi expects to see, for some reason, a monster. Something terrible. Bruised wings, abyss eyes. 

He sees himself. This surprises him, for some reason. 

It is him like he was in high school, volleyball uniform and stretching his arm across his chest, and he jerks awake. 

The green light of the alarm clock only reveals the slope of his cell phone, the sloppy toss of his keys. Beyond, he can make out the shape of Bokuto sleeping. He breathes unevenly, one long exhale, one short inhale. 

Someone once told him not to look. Don’t look, they had said. He does not remember who, or what, or why. Akaashi covers his eyes with his hands. 

Bokuto’s breath hitches painfully, and Akaashi can hear him roll in his sleep. 

Wasn’t he proud. Wasn’t this what he had done.

* * *

“I’ll just rest here for a while,” Bokuto says. “I want to enjoy the view.” He sits at a park bench. The view of the trees is adequate, but he holds onto his stomach with both hands. 

“Does it hurt?” Akaashi hovers. “Do you need water?” 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says firmly. “I’ll be fine.” 

Akaashi leaves two bottles of water and a small lunchbox container. He searches for another map. His cell phone reception blinks and crawls at a grueling pace. From what little he had seen, the hospital should run along the closest street. He has not told Bokuto about his plan. He thinks Bokuto would consider it a betrayal of trust, or worse, he wouldn’t have the strength to say anything at all. 

A little beyond the park, something catches his eye. It’s buried in a small alleyway, but a stone lantern still stands outside a parted doorway. The painted blue pipes gurgle beside it, a stack of empty containers on the other side. He steps past the lantern and pushes open the door. 

The foyer squeezes into a cramped square room. It’s smaller than the high school storage room, barely taking any steps to cross from one end to another. Historic documents are encased behind glass, embedded into the wall. A wooden stand sits at the front. Behind it, delicate blue flowers with long stems rise from their vases. The petals are the blue of a lake. The wood grains of the amber walls resemble the barred feathers of an owl. 

In front, a metal bowl contains some fruit. An elderly woman sits on the bench, face weathered and wrinkled, hands curved over her cane. It is the only bench in the room. Akaashi hesitates. 

“Please sit,” she says, her voice a croak. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, sitting at the edge of the bench. They are close enough that he can see the stray threads of her coat. 

“You don’t seem like a tourist,” she says, good-humored. “Tourists rarely find places like this.”

“It was a coincidence.” 

“I see.” The woman wraps her hand around the handle of the cane. “There used to be more shrines, temples, dedicated to this god. Some were destroyed, others taken by nature. Even this town used to be bigger. But this is the last temple to this god, do you know that?” 

“No.” Akaashi examines the room. Warm, running with electric lights, comfortable. He supposes he should feel more reverent, but he feels somehow peaceful. 

“They’ve taken all the rest. But someone said, not this one. Not here. Not ever.” The woman regards the tiny temple. “It’s a good place to rest.”

“Do you come here often?” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly. See that paper?” She points to a string of paper, carefully curated, behind the glass. “That’s supposed to keep out bad things. The sinners, the cursed. It’s a safe place.” 

“It’s a nice temple,” he says. 

“Are you humoring me?” 

“No.” 

“There must be bigger temples.” 

“Yes,” he says. “But this is a temple dedicated to the owl god.” 

“Certainly,” she says, nodding to herself. “Certainly, certainly. They say this town has always been protected by him, even when they no longer worshipped him. My great-grandmother said our family personally prospered from his benevolence.” 

“You’re familiar with the stories?”

“Of course. Certainly. Every single tale. He created mountains and oceans, battled other gods for power, destroyed at his whim. When he was lonely, he would create servants. He created a friend for himself, and this friend became a counselor, a minister of his word.” She nodded. 

“Didn’t this friend betray him?”

“Nonsense. Of course not. Hogwash.” She tapped her cane against the stone floor. “When they were terribly wounded in a battle, the god used his last breath to turn them into owls and set them free in the forest.” 

“And the god?” 

“Some say he perished. I thought so, too. But I had a pen pal, years ago. You remind me of him, somehow. Polite, quiet. He said no god ever dies. Their good will always live on, passed down from generation to generation.” The woman smiles, white hair wispy. “My pen pal passed away some years ago, but he inspired me to come here often. I’ve found peace in this place. I hope others find the same.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better if the god never created his friend?” Akaashi asks. 

“Then,” the elderly woman says, “he would not have had a friend.”

She speaks with such finality, Akaashi does not question her. Instead, he slowly rests his shoulder blades against the back of the bench. The serene temple has a quiet that seeps into the wood, the paper, the dark pebbles beside the stone pathway. Nobody enters or leaves the room. The woman bows her head respectfully, and Akaashi does the same. Gladness fills his chest. This temple remains. This temple is still here. This temple holds someone who would still gracefully appreciate the thin line to history, to veneration. 

It has grown late when Akaashi leaves. The sunset stains the clouds with a dull purple and pink.

The park bench is empty. 

Akaashi runs his hand over the bench, half-expecting to feel some kind of hint. He checks the thicket of trees behind the bench, and walks around the park twice. When the scouring turns up nothing, he stands by the doorway to the small temple and thinks and breathes. They had checked out of the inn after Akaashi ate a quiet breakfast. There was still the car, parked a moderate distance, but he wonders if Bokuto had simply slumped over on the bench and they had helped him, carried him, to the hospital. Or if he rests in someone’s house. Or someone saw him, lying prone, and—

“Akaashi, there you are.” Bokuto steps from the fog. “You were gone too long! I got bored.”

“Bokuto-san,” he says, and then he cannot say anything more. He straightens his shoulders, but he has to cover his twitching mouth. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Bokuto rests his hands on his knees, peering up at him. “Did you get lost? It’s okay. I’m here, so I’ll find you.”

“It’s not that.” 

“Yeah?” Bokuto grins and pats him on the shoulder. His grip has no strength. When Akaashi looks closer through the mist, Bokuto sways slightly on his feet. Better, then worse. And worse. And worse, even more.

“You should sit down. There’s a bench inside here,” Akaashi says, and pulls Bokuto towards the temple. Bokuto’s fingertips brush through the doorway, and then he collapses. 

It’s sudden, like a puppet with the strings cut. Bokuto falls to the ground and dry heaves on the steps, nothing left in his stomach. Alarmed, Akaashi drops down beside him, keeping him away from the parted doorway. He runs his hands through Bokuto’s hair, sliding down to keep a steady hand on his back while Bokuto groans onto the ground. Bokuto shakes, more violently than he had done in the car before. 

“It’s cold here,” Akaashi says. “We’ll find you somewhere warm to sit.” He stands up and holds out his hand. His knees are still smudged from the dirt. 

Bokuto has stopped heaving, but he doesn’t take Akaashi’s hand. 

“I don’t think I can get up,” Bokuto says faintly. Akaashi does not move. 

“You can.”

“Akaashi.” It’s the first time Akaashi has heard raw panic in Bokuto’s voice. “What have I left you? Have I—Have you got anything, when I’m gone? I don’t remember. I don’t remember, if there’s anything—if there’s anything you want, Akaashi.” 

“Don’t say that.” Akaashi squeezes his hands into fists. “Stop. Don’t say it.”

“I hope I did,” Bokuto tells the ground angrily. Akaashi doesn’t want to hear the rest. He yanks on Bokuto’s arm. After moments of poking and prodding, Bokuto leans over his back. Akaashi doesn’t have the luxury of fear, but he feels it anyway, a cold stranglehold on his insides. Bokuto has a comforting weight, but sometimes he feels like nothing but what no bird can consume. 

It takes too long to find his car again. Bokuto’s breathing had dropped from heavy pants to shallow gasps. His arm flops down uselessly over the side of his seat. Akaashi reaches over, pulls the seatbelt over his chest. It feels like nothing’s there. 

“We’ll go to the hospital.” Akaashi’s voice doesn’t shake. He starts the car and roars down the road. His engine rumbles. The headlights illuminate only the weeds of the road, a splash of green before he’s already driving past. His tires scream when he turns the corners, the shambles of old houses flickering past until they merge into trees, a reversal of time. 

“It’s okay, Akaashi.” Bokuto’s voice is raspier than usual. “It doesn’t hurt.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“I know you.” Faster and faster, the car pulses down the road. “I should have taken you to the hospital on the first night.” 

“I’ve already been to the hospital. In and out, in and out.” Bokuto laughs, and then coughs. 

“When did you first go?” Akaashi squeezes the steering wheel. “Was it soon after I—broke up with you?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.” 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, frustration like a growl beneath his voice. “It doesn’t matter. I told you, I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“Bokuto-san.” A reproach. 

“Akaashi.” Bokuto twists in his seat to face him. His chin grits tight and hand plunging into the depths of his stomach. The car’s headlights illuminate the gravely bark of the trees, the furry moss lining the dirt, the slumber of boulders, and then it all disappears behind them. The dark clouds linger over the faded mountains, which seem like sleeping giants below blankets of mist. Dark tendrils cautiously stray from the clouds and tangle over the trees. The sky, the color of snow, is immovable to Akaashi’s silent pleas. 

The floor of the vehicle vibrates beneath his feet. He slows for another turn, the metal rail dented and fading behind them. Bokuto slumps back down into his seat. He does not seem well. He mutters, dreamily, about finally. Finally. 

But Akaashi isn’t ready. He’s begging into the hard pavement, the scratched-off paint. Help him. Somebody help him. 

“Please,” he breathes. 

Something flutters through the trees. Winged, and quiet, inaudible over the engine. Akaashi slows down to where the animal had flown, but the pines only tremble from where talons had once gripped them. When he directs his gaze downwards, he sees an old statue, half-buried in the dirt. Two objects emerge from the head, some long and oval shapes from the sides. He thinks he sees a pathway through the forest. 

He pulls to the side of the road and stops the car. 

“Are we there?” Bokuto mumbles, eyes still closed. 

“Yes.” Akaashi unbuckles his seatbelt. “This is where I wanted to take you. I’m sure. This is it. It’s—It’s a little far ahead, but we’ll get there.” 

“Where are we going?” 

“I don’t know.” Akaashi grabs a flashlight, another coat. He helps Bokuto’s arm over his shoulder and steps onto the pathway. The dirt trail that seems familiar, despite everything. This tree was younger, he thinks, but he had never been to this place. They had all grown taller. A fresh pine smell. New moss covering the sides of the bark. This was the place, something inside him whispers, and he has to believe the voice because he has nothing else left now. 

Bokuto’s knees buckle. He slides off Akaashi’s shoulders and falls to the ground, almost soundless. 

“Bokuto-san.” He drops to his knees, but this time, Bokuto doesn’t stir. Akaashi holds his fingers over his mouth. He does not feel a breath. 

“Wait,” he says. His hands are cold and numb, his fingers clumsy. He presses hard on Bokuto’s neck, trying to find a pulse. When he feels only icy skin, he fumbles with his wrist. His nails dig against the veins. Nothing. Silence. Quiet. Alone, in some forest, on some mountain, near some small town, so far away. He has to remember to breathe because he’s choking on air, now, desperately trying to shake Bokuto awake. 

“Please,” he whispers. Bokuto’s mouth is slack. The flashlight rocks from where it landed, batteries powering the faint light spilling over his unmoving hands. 

“Not yet. Not—we’re close. We’re close, can’t you feel it?” Akaashi can’t feel anything in his hands, his voice shaking. “Don’t go. Don’t go yet. Please. Wake up.” 

He could pound on Bokuto’s chest. No, try to breathe air into his lungs. No, maybe he needed something else, but he had been an idiot, a fool, or maybe he was simply on the last vestiges of his sanity, crawling in the dirt, something sinking in his stomach. Cold, lost, alone. 

“Don’t leave me behind again.” Akaashi bends his head into his hands. He has never seen this sight before, but he think he has, once, or twice, or a million times, over and over again. A million times he has bowed his head and begged to something beyond his knowledge, and he hopes, with all the stinging of his eyelids and trembling of his hands, all his begging have become birds that have flown, unseen, through the centuries, and if they could settle now, in a fluttering of his cries and sorrow, and grant his only wish. The ambiguous bird with eyes unseeing, the faint sorrow of a stranger passing, the sharp-tongued anguish of a friend dying, the hollow-weighted despair, deep and unending like a lake yet uncoated with ice. Again, and again, and again. 

He begs for his sadness to save his friend. Not yet, not yet, not left behind again. Didn’t they understand? In high school, Bokuto had always been so loud. The way he moved across the court, leaping for Akaashi’s setting, the way he had flown in the amber lights of the gym. The way he kissed him, hot and fumbling. The way he sat beside him so close, their thighs would touch in one long line. The way he would call, the way he would open the door, the way he would smile. Wasn’t it enough? Hadn’t he suffered enough?

A million, million times, a million birds, a million sorrows, and he begged, scraping his voice and hands raw, for the years of his suffering to save him, save him now. 

Bokuto’s fingers stir. Akaashi wonders for a chilly second if he’s imagining it, daring not to hope, but his pinky slowly extends out and hooks onto Akaashi’s leg. 

Akaashi exhales, a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His hands still shake. His nose runs, and he carelessly wipes with the back of his sleeve. The little movement was all he had, like a flickering candle, and he cupped his hands around the pinky to keep him warm. 

“Okay. You’ll be okay. You’re okay.” Akaashi helps him up again, and though it’s faint, he can feel Bokuto lean on him. “Please don’t scare me like that.” He tries to sound professional, not fearful. His heart throbs. His footsteps are unsure, wobbling in the dirt. But he still steps down the path, pushing away the branches. 

They reach a clearing at the end of the path. Akaashi doesn’t know what he was expecting to see, but he feels surprised, still, when he sees the silver grass. An empty groove, what once was a river, carved along the side. Stone lanterns, covered in moss, have been flung onto their sides, and little remnants of wood structures litter in the grass. Only two buildings have any walls remaining, stone structures above a short landing of moss-covered stairs. Everything broken, everything old. 

“Is that a river?” Bokuto mumbles, eyes squinting against the darkness. 

“It used to be.” But Akaashi already pushes for the stairs. “Are you thirsty?” 

“No.” 

“Okay. That’s okay.” Akaashi drags him over the field. “Did you know—there’s a saying. No river steps on the same person twice.”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto mutters. “That sounds like a really stupid saying.” 

The steps have long since chipped away. The roof of the first building has caved inside, but Akaashi can barely make out carvings on the outside wall. The wooden door mostly decayed, leaving enough space to peer inside without stepping through the rubble. Through the gentle light of the mist, he can make out vestiges of a painting on the farthest wall. 

Two owls, he supposes. One is large, painted with wings spread out across the wall. The gray feathers are lined with black bars and gold markings, but they resemble heavy storm clouds on a lurking night, the regal gold as lightning bolts. A sharp, carved beak, parted in a fearsome scream. Round golden eyes, painted with shades of sunlight and moonlight, like the owl can see everything. The other, slightly smaller, has its wings tucked neatly against the body. Terrifying in its own way, he supposes. Even the soft shadows blend into the dark gray feathers. In his eyes, secrets unknowable. Both had been painted with veneration and fear, each paint stroke wild and barely restrained. Akaashi’s hand could barely spread out against the strong strokes of a feather. 

“Bokuto-san,” he says quietly. The wind blows through the redwood trees on the outskirts. Bokuto finally stirs, blinking questioningly at him, and then at the painting. 

“What’s this?” 

“I don’t know.” Akaashi tightens his grip on Bokuto’s side. “I just think—you should see it. You should see this.” 

“It’s big,” Bokuto says quietly. Akaashi wants to rebuke, of course it’s big, the largeness was the least of all its qualities—the beauty, the fear, the terror, the respect, the glorification, the exaltation, the reverence. But it is big. It is bigger than Akaashi had ever known, and he stands before it in his human body. 

When Bokuto sways unsteadily, Akaashi helps him away from the rubble. The second building is far less intact, though he supposes safer. The roof had also been torn away, but tumbled on the outside of the crumbling walls. He hesitates outside the jagged stone, but feels nothing when he steps over. Just old ruins. If it was once something, it was not anymore. 

A tree sprouts from the middle of the empty room. 

The silvery grass surrounds the roots. The tree itself is bone white, stretching far into the sky. The mist clouds the top of the trees, but the lower branches sprout out nobly, smooth joints, no ragged bark. It seems carved from marble, not a single flaw in its smooth shape. It is beautiful. 

Akaashi breathes. This is it. 

“Bokuto-san,” he says. “Look.” 

“At what?” 

“The tree. Don’t you feel something?” 

“Not really.” 

“No—there’s something—” Akaashi brings him closer. The long strands of grass wave in the wind, brush against his ankles. 

“I guess it looks like an antler,” Bokuto says. 

“This can help you. I’m sure of it,” Akaashi says quickly. “Touch it. You should touch it.” 

Bokuto eyes him wearily, but he extends a hand and plants his palm against the tree. The trees rustle. Pine needles fall. Nothing happens. 

“Touch it again.” 

Bokuto releases Akaashi’s shoulders, shoving both hands against the tree. He coughs wetly, head bent. 

“No—something is supposed to happen. I know it. I feel it.” Akaashi steps back. “This is supposed to have great power. This should cure you.” 

“Says who?” 

“I don’t know.” Akaashi feels like he’s a child again, arguing beneath the playground in empty justifications. 

Bokuto laughs. He slides down to sit with his back against the tree, hands over his knees. His face is slightly constricted with pain, but he still laughs, easy and free. Akaashi’s heart throbs. The fog hangs over the branches like leaves.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says fondly. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t say that. Stop saying goodbye. I’ll think of something.” Akaashi holds both palms over the cold tree. “I’ve always thought of something. Don’t you trust me? I’ll think of something. I’ll save you.” 

“You really think so?” Bokuto leans his head back on the tree, sagging under his own weight. “I’m not really saying goodbye, Akaashi. But I mean. I guess I want you to know stuff. Like if you wanted to date somebody after all this, I’d be happy for you.” 

“This is the definition,” Akaashi says, “of saying goodbye.”

“And I’m grateful that you were there for me, always. You’ve always looked out for me. And if you broke up with me because I was too much, Akaashi, I get it. I really do.”

“I’ve told you. It’s not that. It wasn’t like that.” 

“I mean, I could have taken you out on more dates. Fancy dates, too. Or maybe I’d be less trouble, you know, less of everything. I thought about it. It kinda makes my hands hurt when I think about it too much. I don’t know why. My fingers just get kinda numb and stingy.” 

“I told you, I’m telling you, it’s not your fault.”

“Then what was it?” Bokuto’s eyes glimmer with a challenge and Akaashi kneels before him, ferociously angry. 

“It was me,” Akaashi hisses. “I broke up with you because you deserved better.” 

“But you’re already the best,” Bokuto says, dismissive, but Akaashi can’t have this. He huddles forward on the palms of his hands. The unmoving background of clouds stays behind the blank tree. 

“I only agreed to go out with you because it was annoying otherwise. Isn’t that terrible? I treated it like a chore. I treated you like a chore. And the first time we had sex, I just felt vindictive that other people would disregard you. That’s all. That was my reason, petty and ridiculous. And before Christmas, I saw you. I didn’t say anything, but I saw you, and you were shopping for me, and I could tell because you looked so happy and pleased and you were buying a gift for me and I saw how much you loved me. You were always so committed to me, and I always had one foot out the door. I was already looking at other programs, and they would have taken me away, and I barely thought about you.” Akaashi’s words tumble, fast on the heels of the last. “You deserved someone better.” 

“Yeah?” Bokuto frowns vaguely. “I mean, I don’t really get it, Akaashi. But isn’t it okay? I was the one who asked you out, you didn’t have to love me or anything. It’s just dating.”

“And that’s another thing. I thought you would be selfish. But you acted like your love was—like it was a burden to me. Like it was a poison that you would swallow. But it’s not. It’s not, it shouldn’t be something that hurts you.” Akaashi slides his hands over his face. “But it did hurt you. I hurt you. I was careless with your feelings. I didn’t notice. I didn’t do enough. I hurt you, and it was my fault.” 

With his palms over his mouth, he inhales the scent of fresh grass. 

He feels Bokuto stroke his hair. Once, twice, hand nestled between the strands. Bokuto’s rough hands run over his head, smoothing down stray locks. Akaashi feels like a child. He supposes Bokuto was once a child, too, who couldn’t stand to see pain.

“You’ve carried this a long time, huh? That’s kinda dumb, Akaashi.” Another warm stroke, and Akaashi bends until his knees bruise against his chest. “I didn’t know you held all this stuff inside you. All that frustration, hate, stuff like that. You could have told me. You could have talked to other people, you know.” 

“I couldn’t,” Akaashi murmurs. When Bokuto brushes the hair over his ear, a hollow echo resounds inside him. “If I said anything, they’d see. They’d see what I was doing. What I was doing to you. Who I was.”

“And what’s so bad about that? I don’t get it, Akaashi. You’re blaming yourself, acting like you’re nothing but bad things. But that’s not true.”

“I’ve done too much wrong. I can’t be forgiven.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” A soft laugh. “But I’d always forgive you, Akaashi. You know that.”

“You can’t promise something like that. You shouldn’t.”

“I guess it’s too bad, because I just did. I’ll always forgive you.”

Don’t look.

But why not? What would he see? What was the world beyond the safe curtains of his eyelids?

He raises his eyes. He expects to see something dull and rotting, an ancient carcass, and his heart strains in his chest, not again, not again. Instead, he sees feet. Strong legs. Hands over knees, a broad chest, a solid neck, a wide smile, bright eyes. Akaashi reaches out tentatively. He touches Bokuto’s hand. It’s cold, but it’s there. He cannot feel the pulse, but it’s there. He touches his human hand, his human wrist, following to his human forearm, human shoulder, human face. Bokuto smiles, questioning. 

Akaashi is grateful. The Christmas he’d carried around within him had rotted and he still dragged the heavy burden behind him. They would know, he thought. They would know what he had done. He’s ashamed and he’s guilty. But Bokuto aimlessly smiles, and it’s lighter in his hands. 

“But you don’t have to bear my sins anymore,” he says softly.

“What?” Bokuto blinks tiredly. “Of course I do.” 

“Not anymore,” he repeats. “I’ve learned my own absolution. But thank you for saving me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you.”

“It’s not something to thank,” Bokuto mutters sullenly. “If anything, I just want you to forgive me.”

Akaashi wonders if a god’s blight can be seen through human eyes. 

“Forgive you for what? Loving me? Why?” Akaashi brings his fingers to Bokuto’s mouth, touching over his lips. “It makes me happy to be loved by you. But you told me that when you’re human, you can give and take. You promised me. So it’s enough. You’ve given enough. So please, be selfish. Ask from me what you need.” 

“What do you mean?” Bokuto slouches. When he speaks, Akaashi’s fingers follow his mouth. 

“I’ll protect you. It’s safe now. We’re safe.” Akaashi touches over his cheeks, his ears. “I’ve found you.” 

Bokuto’s eyes flicker. He parts his mouth, scrunches his nose, curls his hands. 

“Have you?” he asks quietly, strict lines of his shoulders fading away. 

“You said, in the end, only love remains. Isn’t that true?” Akaashi smiles. “Tell me what you need.” 

“But I don’t need anything from you,” Bokuto says. His stare is raw and piercing. Akaashi strokes his cheek again, skimming over his cheekbone. 

“All right,” Akaashi says. “Tell me what you want.” 

He thinks, distantly, that he’s always been affectionate towards the way Bokuto would blink in thought. His eyes track the skyline. Night has fallen. The evening has turned into a billowing blue cloth, the clouds stitched together with invisible thread. A river of stars stretches across the bone tree, milky cracks in the sky. 

“I want everything,” Bokuto says, almost like a question. “I want you to say that you love me. I want you to stay with me. I want you to give me everything you’ve got.” 

“All right,” Akaashi says. “I can do that.” 

“Yeah, but you can’t.” Bokuto grins sloppily, a hint of worry, like this is a joke. Akaashi kisses him on his lying mouth. 

“Don’t you think I was jealous? Didn’t you wonder if I was envious? The way I looked at them.” Akaashi undoes Bokuto’s coat, slipping the hard buttons through the knotted threads. “I wanted to worship you, too.”

It’s cold, so he’s careful. He brings his hands to wrap around Bokuto’s jaw, pulling him closer for a kiss. Bokuto kisses weakly, still drained, but he kisses with a starving, lean hunger. Akaashi wants to spend an eternity to kiss his perfect mouth. The side, the top, the bottom, sucking at Bokuto’s mischievous tongue, wet and sloppy. The damp sounds filled the air, far closer and far beyond any trees. Bokuto moans when Akaashi sucks hard at his tongue, raking past the raw tip, and Akaashi wants more. He kisses Bokuto’s eyelids, half-shut in pleasure, the tip of his nose, the side of his cheek, the broadness of his forehead, the tangles of his hair. His hands stroke, again and again, down the back of Bokuto’s hair until the strands have become so loose between his fingers and it is soft, he has never noticed, but it is soft. 

“Perfect,” Akaashi whispers. The gold of Bokuto’s eyes glimmer, and it swims with a bright light. Corneas, lenses, nerves, a miracle. 

Bokuto blinks sluggishly, and then offers a consoling smile. 

Akaashi slowly kisses down his jaw to the softness of his neck, feeling the strain of muscles, the way his breath vibrates and hitches when Akaashi sucks slowly at the skin. So long ago, he thinks, this would have made Bokuto happy. So little would have pleased him. But he had barely touched him, when he could have rested his hand on Bokuto’s head when Bokuto knelt, humble and trusting, before him. 

He lays Bokuto’s coat on the grass. Bokuto runs his hand through Akaashi’s hair, over his ears, wherever he can touch. Akaashi kisses the sharp line of his neck, the bob in his throat, the way it tastes in his mouth, like victory, like triumph. The clean moon illuminates the soft shadows of his collar. Curiously, Akaashi dips his tongue against the taut curve of the clavicle. Bokuto’s breath hitches. It’s firm, and warm, like an arched bow. The shoulders, too, broad and stored with a heavy strength. They sloped like mountains, the bony protrusions hidden behind warm skin. He pulls Bokuto’s shirt impatiently up, higher, and Bokuto laughs, bewildered, when the shirt passes over his head. But Akaashi kisses the hard knot of his bicep, the soft incline of the inside of his elbow, his sturdy forearm. Down to his wrists, along the river lines of his palm, the shortness of his fingers, and it had all worked to slam down the ball, to rise in victory, to hold him tight. 

“You’re so good,” Akaashi murmurs. This elicits a small inhale. Bokuto’s bare chest rises and falls. He always had developed pectorals, muscular underneath Akaashi’s fingertips. He runs a finger down the sternum, cupping where the heart beats, far away beneath layers of skin and tissues and twisting veins, carrying blood back and forth. Bokuto’s skin is warm, though the night air has a colder chill. Not unpleasant, but cold enough for his nipples to be hard underneath Akaashi’s twisting fingertips. Another sharp inhale. Another long exhale. 

“I want to touch you, too,” Bokuto says, a hint of a whine. Akaashi likes this, too. The petulance, the willfulness. Bokuto’s rough hands roll up Akaashi’s shirt and then he kisses him, the hunger slowly replaced with a hesitant indulgence. Akaashi holds onto his back, feeling the shoulder blades shift, draping down to the knuckled notches of his spine. Bokuto moves, muscles contracting and bones settling. Akaashi remembers the way the volleyball uniform had clung to his shoulders, the way thin shirts would cling to him. 

“Strong,” he murmurs, distracted by the way the prominent abdominal muscles press against him. It’s been a long time since he allowed himself this pleasure. The sensation of bare flesh against bare flesh whispers, shivers. Bokuto’s hands promise warmth when he cradles his back, but Akaashi wants to touch him more, scouting the curve of his hip bones above his waistband. 

“Did you say something?” Bokuto nips at his ear playfully. Akaashi thinks he is melting, beneath the moon and stars and tree. It’s a slow rising warmth, but it swallows him whole. 

“You’re strong,” he says. “You could carry me.” 

“Oh,” Bokuto says. New wrinkles appear on his forehead. But Akaashi shoves down his own pants, barely stopping to pull off his socks. The grass is silky underneath his bare toes. Bokuto’s eyes, the deep-lined gold, light up with interest. 

“When I think about that,” Akaashi whispers, “it makes me feel this way.” He’s already half-hard, and he strokes himself twice, quickly. He can feel it stiffen under Bokuto’s gaze. He ducks his head from the pleasure of his hand and the way Bokuto’s mouth parts, perfectly, with surprise. 

“Why?” Bokuto finally asks. 

Akaashi kisses the hard lines of his stomach, too. It feels neglectful to leave any part of Bokuto unkissed. He can smell a musky scent, the smell of arousal, and when he pushes down Bokuto’s waistband, he can see the swollen head of his erection. He deliberately follows the trail down his strong thighs, the way they tense under his hands and strain with power. There is force beneath him that he cannot control, and he wants to bury his face between Bokuto’s thighs and feel them press against his ears. He pulls the pants down to the joints of his knees, so casual in their mesmerizing innocence. For those who watched them on television during their matches, and those who only battled their team on official courts, they would never see Bokuto’s knees. But it wasn’t rare for him to take off the kneepads in the club room or during breaks, and Akaashi can still imagine the sweaty reddened impressions left behind, the way they glistened, so cool and clean, not just the small sliver of skin between shorts and kneepads, and to see them so exposed filled him with something more, and now he can see the expanse of skin in all their glory and he licks his thigh with reverence. 

“I kinda figured,” Bokuto says, breathing heavily and face red, “because you were always bringing up kneepads, so I figured—you actually really get turned on by volleyball, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Akaashi says smoothly, because it’s easier to agree than to explain the way his cock feels about Bokuto’s legs. He curves along the calves, hands resting over his ankles and brushing over his now bare feet. Bokuto’s erection taunts him. He swallows, daring to hoist his hands back against the forceful curve of his hip bones. 

“So good,” he breathes, and Bokuto shivers. He slips his mouth over the head, and the taste overwhelms him. He can hardly breathe through his nose. It tastes, somehow, warm, and much like Bokuto. But there’s a dampness spreading on the tip and he licks up the clear liquid and swallows it down into his stomach and he wants more. Bokuto’s cock twitches in his mouth and Akaashi wants to see how much he can take into his throat. He shakily pumps it with his hand, his arm weakening from holding up his weight. Another strong throb, and Akaashi groans softly. He lavishes his tongue over the veins, leaving sticky wet trails down the shaft. It stretches the side of his mouth, a good sting resonating deep inside his stomach, and he’s touching himself, unable to hold himself back from stroking while sucking. He’s clumsier, he thinks, because he wasn’t used to this. The size, the shape, the way it rests against his lips when he pulls back and it’s hard and ready in front of him. Sometimes it’s not enough to simply suck against the tip, cheeks pressed tight against the harder-and-harder erection. He holds it steady with one hand to press it hard against his mouth, feeling the sensation of it moving across his lips, the smell rising, the taste on his tongue. 

It’s been so long that he’s collapsing into craven behavior, dirty and wanton. He needs to lick down the silky skin, moving under the ministrations of his tongue. He’s licking until Bokuto’s cock is covered in wetness. Akaashi has to touch himself in quick, desperate strokes, before using both hands to circle around the base. He laps and huffs out breaths of warm air that make Bokuto shiver, his thighs quaking for some release. Akaashi slips a hand over his thigh. He wants so much. He wants to take him all the way down his throat, he wants to fuck himself on Bokuto’s cock, he wants everything. 

“Feels good,” Bokuto mumbles. “Feels really good.” 

“I want,” Akaashi says, “to fuck you.” 

Bokuto stares at him, squinting, with almost disbelief. Akaashi runs his hands over Bokuto’s thighs to keep him warm, and licks the tip again, and again, soft and steady. 

“You—you can.” Bokuto sets his face into his best casual impression, but his darting eyes betray his nervousness. “I thought we might. You know. Later. So I bought some. You know. Stuff. Because I thought, if, if I was well enough, maybe we could. We could, you know, but you know, it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to push yourself. You know.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Pocket.” Bokuto leans back. “Left. Left pocket. But you still don’t have to. If you don’t want to.” 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” 

Bokuto, trembling, inhales. He finally nods. He stares up at the stars, not looking while Akaashi rustles around. Akaashi’s finger is cold and damp when he slowly presses against the entrance, but he thinks Bokuto always did like his fingers, so he might like this, too. Bokuto flushes and strains, the marvelous tendons moving like imperceptible shadows underneath the moon and shining tree. Akaashi presses inside him, tentatively, but Bokuto always was able to relax more. It’s almost easy to bury his finger all the way to his joint, and easier still to press against the walls. Bokuto is still hard, and his breathing has only swelled in pace. He pushes his legs further apart, wide enough for Akaashi to comfortably twist his arm around. 

“So good,” Akaashi murmurs. Bokuto laughs in an almost hiccup. 

“You can’t say that when you’re—you’re in me,” Bokuto says, gripping hard against the coat until the fabric wrinkles and strains. 

“But you are good.” Akaashi curls his finger. It’s still tight, but he can feel the walls squeezing when he talks. It tightens at his words. Bokuto stares at him, still with confusion lingering on the parting of his mouth. 

“You’re being good for me,” Akaashi says, amending. The moon, despite its surprising brightness, still cloaks the rest of the world. Akaashi doesn’t see Bokuto’s expression, though he feels the second tight squeeze and the shiver of his thighs. He curls his fingers again, and feels something soft. He rubs against it, almost absently. He leans over and holds his weight by his second arm, close enough to Bokuto’s face that Bokuto kisses the inside of his wrist. 

“Feels kinda weird,” Bokuto says, “but, kinda good weird. Is it okay for you?”

“Yes.” He nudges his finger against the soft spot, and Bokuto shivers. “I like seeing you.” 

“Yeah?” Bokuto seems distracted, grasping Akaashi’s stray wrist. 

“Yeah. Yes. You’re handsome. You look good. You’re good at volleyball. You’re kind. You’re thoughtful. You’re a leader. You’re the hero.” And Akaashi could stare at him forever, so enraptured by the way Bokuto’s face had flushed to the tips of his ears, the short panting, the way he felt so warm clenched around his finger. Bokuto’s eyes flutter half-shut, dazed in bliss. Something comforts Akaashi about Bokuto’s solidity beneath him, the way his muscles have weight and width when they glisten and twitch at Akaashi’s finger. He’s aroused by the sight of the firm and simple muscle and the thighs pressed sweaty against his forearm. He wants to see more. He presses his finger down harder and Bokuto grunts, hips rolling. 

“More,” Bokuto mutters, “more.” He greedily licks at Akaashi’s wrist. It’s a tickle that resonates in Akaashi’s ears. 

“You’re being so good. You can probably take all of me, can’t you” –and he nudges around his finger and Bokuto moans, low and deep in his throat—“and you’re so good at taking me, being so good to me”—the night air is somehow hot around him, and he’s sensitive to the wind brushing against his back, the strange sticky sensation when he pulls out his finger to jut it back inside—“and you’re loved, you must know that”—he must, and Bokuto cracks an eye open, the red on his face heavy—“by others, by your friends, by me”—now both of Bokuto’s eyes remain open, staring at him with heavily guarded hope, but what was there to fear—“I love you. I do. I love you.” 

It’s like a jolt through Bokuto, and he’s clawing at Akaashi’s wrist with half-choked moans of “Akaashi—Akaashi—Akaash—“ and Akaashi feels so strange, like he’s floating. He feels accomplished, he feels like he should have done more, he feels so entranced by the way Bokuto jerks beneath his hand, eyes wide at the sensation, and he’s sweaty and clutching at Akaashi’s wrist and tentatively shoves his hips down onto Akaashi’s hand and Akaashi obliges with curling his finger and Bokuto is set off again, shuddering with all his might and clenching almost weakly at any grasp of Akaashi’s fingers. In his low voice, he’s calling in broken bits for Akaashi, over and over again. 

Akaashi thinks he’s staring down at lightning, thunder. Bokuto’s eyes glitter with promises. When Bokuto grits his teeth, his mouth resembles a tight beak, and the loose coat tumbling out beneath him is like wings. It’s something so old and powerful, and it fills him. This was the boulders on mountains, rumbling only once a century, or the quiet of the forest, so deep and aching and yet still so loud with the chattering of birds and crunching of needles and the impression, the inaudible but present flutter of a wing, and the sight of something beautiful. A temple, old but still young, lacquered and holy, reverent in its presence, the sanctity of the water that glistens like untouched slivers of the moon and the paper rustling like the bite of crisp fruit and the smell of shaved wood and the god, in the room, present and unseen, something so much bigger than he could ever see. Bokuto moans out his name, stressing the syllables, and Akaashi thinks it feels like the precious moments between sunrise and morning, sunset and night, when the cloth had yet to descend. It’s the bruises on his knees when he kneels and presses his forehead against the ground, prostrating himself. And when he looks up, he can see lulling nights at the gym, the ball heading his way, the way his fingers will arch and set, the resonation of the spike he has memorized to the back of his eyelids. A television show in the background and the stove running and the smell of burning pancakes while his cell phone lights up and a hand, warm, pressed against his, and it’s a different shrine, but he thinks, this is familiar.

Bokuto pulls him down for a kiss, and he’s still shaking from the tremors, but he’s insistent and his hair damp against his forehead. 

“—me,” he’s saying. “Fuck me, Akaashi, please—” And Akaashi kisses him like the swell of the ocean. 

Like he expects, he can slide into Bokuto with little difficulty. He doesn’t expect the warmth. Bokuto kisses him and sets the rhythm, quick and strong. Akaashi can only hear the sound of his own panting. The rest of the world has fallen silent. Bokuto has buried his face into the crook of Akaashi’s shoulder, but he can still feel the way his jaw sets and his fingers curl over Akaashi’s back. 

If he thinks about it, he doesn’t really know the difference between defilement and desecration. If he was supposed to do one, or the other, or none at all. If a long time ago, someone with a low voice told him that all rules, in time, were broken. 

Akaashi doesn’t know if he’s worshipping or profaning. He rocks his hips with a neediness, fucking Bokuto quick and deep in the ass, and Bokuto’s hair is sweaty and slicked back and digging his fingers into Akaashi’s back and leaving marks of blood and Akaashi is humbled, devoted to this benevolence, at where they connect, the warmth rushing inside of him and the worthiness blessed upon him, the litany of light, the moon cascading over them, and it’s the squelching noise and the way his pre-cum is smearing in heavy drips across Bokuto’s stomach, dripping like a sticky, filthy mess towards his stomach, and Akaashi kisses him with the smell of cock and balls still in his mouth, and this is comfort and compassion, a purity in the waves of higher pleasure rolling over him. Bokuto kisses him, and Akaashi comes.

The force of it astounds him. He’s shuddering with his back bent, elbows flat on the messy coat. He fumbles for Bokuto’s cock, jerking him off in barely one swift pump. The semen splatters on both of them. 

In a few minutes, he rolls off. In another few minutes, the night air grows chilly again, but Bokuto is already sitting up and slinging on a shirt without any help. They’re both half-dressed when the sun finally begins to rise on the horizon. Akaashi sits against the tree. Bokuto hasn’t said much, except in the actions of pressing hot kisses against Akaashi’s mouth, but Akaashi doesn’t hear a ragged edge of his breathing. He is relieved. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says quietly. “I want you to love me. I know, it might take a long time for me to become a guy that you’d like, but if you think there’s a chance—if you’re willing to humor me or whatever—then I’ll—”

“I love you.” Akaashi still feels fatigued, so he doesn’t turn his head at Bokuto’s inquisitive look. 

“Just like that?” 

“You asked, didn’t you. Don’t be so surprised.” Akaashi leans against the hard bark of the tree. In the light of day, the tree seems more like an unusual birch, not carved from bone. The leaves fan out, and the light penetrates through the delicate, thinner edges. The leafy smell wafts, unfurling like petals. It is beautiful. 

“Wow.” Rustling, and then something warm on his shoulder. Akaashi watches the sunset spread the rays of light. Bokuto must have leaned against him. 

“If this life is all we have,” Akaashi says. “Then I’m glad to have loved you.”

“Oh, me too, then. Me too, except way more.” A flapping motion, as if Bokuto was trying and failing to dissuade Akaashi’s annoyance. “And if this life isn’t all we got, then I’m going to love you for each and every one of them.”

“That’s unlikely. If you consider the statistics, that likelihood is slim.”

“Akaashi, cheer up once in a while!” 

“But I suppose if you do that much,” Akaashi says, “then I’ll do the same.”

In the morning light, the abandoned temple turned out to be short trees. The bristling new growth spiked out from frail branches. The rippling grass spread across the hill. A small river still grew in strength, running inside the grooves of a larger rut. It courses, nevertheless, down the hill in small, gushing waterfalls. He listens to Bokuto’s human breath, still smooth. His pulse is almost audible from where he sits. It was all very human. He feels peaceful. Eventually, he allows his gaze to fall on the shadows of the grass. 

Bokuto’s hair is disheveled, but a trick of the light must touch his shadow. His hair resembles two great horns sprouting from his head, stretching to touch the sun.


End file.
